work, or amuse yourself in any way you like; have you? Be sure and tell me if you have not, for I gave most particular orders that you should have."

Yes, ma'am, so Saunders said, and she told me I might write to mother yesterday evening if I liked, and I began to, but-oh, I want to go home-I want. to go home." And Sarah's speech ended in a fit of

sobbing.

"Poor child," said Miss Caroline, kindly taking her hand, "I don't wonder you feel being absent from your mother; it must be a trial, I know. But it isn't only of ourselves, Sarah, we must think, and I'm sure that an affectionate girl like you must find it a satisfaction to think that by staying here you are saving your mother the expense of keeping you, and are earning something too-something that supports yourself, and that perhaps will go towards making her comfortable besides."

"Yes, I do like to think I shall be able to get my own living, and to give something to mother."

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Perhaps you think, though, Sarah, you could find some other place that would suit you better? I doubt that. It is very difficult for little girls like you to find good places. I dare say Saunders and Rebecca often scold you unjustly, and I know that crossness is very hard to bear with, but still as you must have something to bear with wherever you go, I think it would be much better for you to remain here, than to go back to be a burthen on your mother, just for the chance of some situation offering itself which you think you might like better. I've little doubt you'll be happier when you have had more time to get used to our ways; why, don't you already find some of your duties easier to perform? I saw yesterday how much less awkward you were in helping to lay the dinner things."

"Did you, ma'am?" said Sarah, brightening up at the first words of encouragement.

Yes, I did, indeed; you're a handy girl I can see, and just fitted to make a good servant. And I can tell you, Sarah, that to be an honest, industrious, obliging servant, is to be a very useful person in the world, a person whom all wise and good people will very much

respect. St. Paul, the great apostle, thought so, I am sure, for he recommends servants not to wish to leave their service, but assures them that by faithfully serving their masters on earth they will best serve their Master in heaven. I don't mean to say that servants havn't trials—often heavy trials to bear, but then so have we all, rich as well as poor. I have mine, Sarah, and you have yours."

Sarah secretly thought that Miss Wainwright, possessing, as she did, a piano and books, being able always to dress well, and having no hard work to do, could scarcely have experienced any trials of her own. She felt, however, so much cheered by the kindness with which she was treated, as well as by her young mistress's promise to look after her in her work, that her letter to her mother was re-written, and ended with the assurance that she was getting on very well, and that Miss Caroline was the nicest lady she had ever known in all her life.

PSALM CIV.

THIS beautiful psalm is generally a favourite with young people. It would be yet more often read, and still better remembered, than it is, if its full meaning were understood. The writer appears to have been full of the grand idea, not unfamiliar to the Hebrews, but often lost sight of in more modern days, that the whole of creation is a manifestation of the power and wisdom, the beauty and love of God. Looking around on the objects of nature, the tribes of animated beings, the changes of the seasons, he sees in all, the outward manifestations which prove the presence in all of an in-dwelling and ever-active Deity. To convey this idea, the author of this sacred poem presents to us a series of pictures, so vivid that we can see the objects as he describes them. He shows us, as it were, a great moving panorama of creation, and enables us to discern God throughout the whole of it. So distinctly is this pictorial character impressed on the psalm, that a series of pictures has been made by a lady to illustrate it, in which every verse supplies the subject for a separate picture.

The 104th Psalm consists of seven parts. In the first, God is addressed as the author of the great powers of nature, covered with light as with a garment, making the clouds his chariot, "who walkest on the wings of the wind, who makest the winds thy messengers, the flaming fires thy servants". (verses 1 to 4).

The second part describes the creation of the earth, the separation of its surface into sea and land, and the bounds set to the waters (5-9). The third notices the beneficent provision by means of which God waters the earth, giving drink to every beast of the field (10—13). The fourth relates to the vegetable world, the grass that God causes to grow for the cattle, and herb for the service of man, the trees such as the cedars of Lebanon,

and the various habitations for the different animals thus afforded, the fir trees for the stork, the hills for the goats, and "the rocks for the conies" (14-18). The animal referred to as "conies," is believed to be the jerboa, or jumping hare, which dwells among rocks, and is of a timid disposition.

Part 5 speaks of the changes of day and night, and the opportunities thus afforded to man for alternate labour and rest (19-23). The sixth describes the wonders of the deep, the vast animals which play there,

who yet all depend on God for life (24-30). The conclusion is a general ascription of power and praise to the Almighty.

If we could uniformly look on the works of God in the spirit of this Psalmist, seeing in all, marks of the presence and power of a God of love, every study of nature would gain an increased interest, every contemplation of scenes of beauty would confer an additional pleasure, and our language, to ourselves and to each other, would often be-" Bless thou the Lord, oh my soul; praise ye the Lord."

ERNEST STANFIELD.

THE sun was sinking with a warm soft light, rose-tinted clouds gathered in the west, and earth and ocean seemed to sleep, as Ernest Stanfield, a boy of fourteen years old, wandered alone and sad upon the solitary beach. Why did that sweet light give him no pleasure; the rippling waters no longer strike his listening ear? Why did the flocks of sea-gulls, homeward returning, pass unnoticed by Ernest, who was ever before wont to mark their graceful flight with interest? The first sorrow was pressing upon his young heart; the narrow

home he had left had become unbearable, and now in the solitude of nature his troubled mind sought relief.

His mother, who had so lovingly watched him until now, was dying. She had spoken to him calmly and gently of the change that soon would leave him and his little sister, Effie, alone upon earth. In the stillness of the twilight hour some days previously, Mrs. Stanfield had called her son to her bedside, and told him of the land to which she was hastening; for his sake she stilled the deep anguish that filled her heart, and spoke pleasantly and cheerfully of her future home. She told him that henceforth he would be the only friend and guardian of his little sister; she bade him try to live as ever in the presence of the Holy God, that he might grow up as one of His children, a simple, true-hearted man, the best and noblest earthly friend of the child she left to his care.

When this sad conversation was ended, Ernest tried to persuade himself that his mother was mistaken, that she could not possibly die, and speak to him no more. How anxiously he watched her, day by day, and if the illness seemed slightly better one day, how was he filled with bright hopes; but on this evening the dreadful certainty had come upon him in all its bitterness, and he felt that there was no hope.

He walked alone upon the shore, until the stars came out, and as they seemed to gaze upon him in their calm and holy beauty, high aspirations filled his soul. He would not disappoint that angel mother; young as he was, her words had sunk deep into his heart, and filled him with a noble purpose. From that hour life was to him a sacred gift, and though, now at its outset, it seemed dark enough, courageously, manfully he would meet it, that his mother might never blush to own her son. Effie was to him a ray of light within the darkness, a little treasure his mother had given him, all his own, she was to look up to him, to depend upon him, and he must be brave for her sake. Never did prayers more real ascend to the throne of God, than rose from the soul of Ernest that night, mingled with the torrent of his great grief and yearnings, he could