father, royal lady!" Lucy had meant to say many persuasive things, but she forgot them all in her sore distress, and could only repeat the words-" Mercy, mercy for my father, gracious Queen!" till her vehement emotion choked her voice, and throwing her arms round the Queen's knees, she leaned her head against Her Majesty's person for support, and sobbed aloud.

The intense sorrow of a child is always peculiarly touching; but the circumstances under which Lucy appeared, were more than commonly affecting. It was a daughter, scarcely beyond the season of infancy, overmastering the timidity of that tender age to become a suppliant to an offended sovereign for the life of a father. Queen Mary pitied the distress of her young petitioner ; but she considered the death of Lord Preston as a measure of political necessity; she therefore told Lucy mildly, but firmly, that she could not grant her request.

"But he is good and kind to every one," said Lucy; raising her blue eyes, which were streaming with tears. He may be so to you, my child," returned Her Majesty ; "but he has broken the laws of his country,

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and therefore he must die."

"But you can pardon him, if you choose to do so, madam," replied Lucy; "and I have read that God is well pleased with those who forgive; for he hath said, 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.'

"It does not become a little girl like you to attempt to instruct me," replied the Queen gravely. "I am acquainted with my duty; and as it is my place to administer justice impartially, it is not possible for me to pardon your father, however painful it may be for me to deny the request of so dutiful a child."

Lucy did not speak; she only raised her eyes with an appealing look to the Queen, and then turned them expressively on the portrait of King James, opposite to which Her Majesty was standing. There was something in that look that bore no common meaning; and the Queen, whose curiosity was excited by the peculiarly emphatic look of the child, could not refrain from asking wherefore she gazed so earnestly upon that picture ?

"I was thinking," replied Lady Lucy, "how strange it was that you should wish to kill my father, only because he loved yours so faithfully!"

This wise but artless reproof from the lips of infant innocence, went to the heart of the Queen; she raised her eyes to the once-dear and honoured countenance of a parent, who, whatever were his political errors as a king,

or his offences against others, had ever been the tenderest of parents to her; and the remembrance that he was an exile in a foreign land, relying on the bounty of strangers for his daily bread, while she and her husband were invested with the regal inheritance of which he had been deprived, pressed upon her the thought of the contrast of her conduct as a daughter, when compared with the filial piety of the child before her, whom a sentence of hers was about to render an orphan. It smote her heart, and she burst into tears.

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'Rise, dear child," said she; "thou hast prevailedthy father shall not die. I grant his pardon at thy entreaty; thy filial love has saved him."

Such, my dear young friends, is a sketch of a scene which is said to have taken place in England, about 170 years ago. You admire the conduct of Lady Lucy, do you not? Did you not wish she might succeed, and were you not glad when she did? Well, when you are doing what is just and right, you need not be afraid, for the Bible says "Who is he that will harm you, if ye be followers of that which is good?"

And yet after all, dear young friends, Jesus Christ did more for you than Lady Lucy did for her father. Jesus left heaven, came down to earth, was wounded for our transgressions, bruised for our iniquities, died for us, rose again from the dead for us, ascended to the right hand of God the Father for us, where he ever liveth to make intercession for us; he is able, he is willing, he is waiting to save us from sin here; and then he will raise us to heaven and glory hereafter. Won't you love him in return? He is every way worthy of your love; he is "the chiefest among ten thousand, and altogether lovely."

Oh! give yourselves to him and his service, in your youthful days; live to bonour your best Friend, do good in your day and generation; and then you shall live with God in heaven for ever. Sent by T. GILES.

THE PASSENGER.

A GREAT crowd was on the platform at the depot. Some were walking up and down; some were lounging idly about; some were waiting for the train; some were talking busily with their friends, and exchanging a few last words. The carriages were soon to be along: all was bustle with those loungers, and talkers, and passengers, and friends-all too busy to attend to the distress of a little girl who stood in a corner by herself. She looked

timidly around, and seemed to be in a sad state of uncertainty and indecision. She was neatly and decently clothed, and seemed all fitted out for a journey. Her face denoted great anxiety, and tears now and then stole slowly down her cheeks. She seemed too timid to speak to any one. At length a young man, with a ruddy, joyful, happy face, noticed her distress, and with kind accents addressed her as follows:

up

"You seem to be in trouble; will you do me the favour to tell me what it is? Perhaps I can assist you.' "Perhaps you can, sir," she said, as she lifted her face to his,-smiling through her tears,-encouraged by the benevolence with which he seemed to regard her. "Will you tell me," said he, "where you came from, what brings you here, and where you are going?"

"I have come from a very wicked city, in which I do not wish to live any longer, for fear I shall be destroyed. I have heard of a glorious city, to which I wish to go, and I have come here to see if I can find ou something about it. I wish to know how I can get there." She spoke earnestly.

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Do you really want to go to the glorious city ?"
I do indeed."

Never to go back to the wicked city from whence you came ?"

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'Never to go back," she said, with great solemnity. "And do you want me to tell you what to do?" "Most certainly I do."

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And you

have resolved to do it ?"

"I wish to do any thing I can."

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It is not much you have to do. But you have just as much to do as I have, and you can do it just as well as I can, and you will be just as sure as myself of getting to the glorious city. You certainly will reach there if you try. You are not too young to understand, not too young to travel, and not too young to reach the glorious city. You are just the one to go.'

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Oh, dear sir, do tell me all about the way, so that

even a little girl like me will make no mistake.'

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You say you have left a very bad city."

Very bad, sir-made up of bad people."

Yourself as bad as any others of the same age, I suppose," said the young man.

"Oh," replied the little girl, "we were a wretched set, I assure you."

"That is honest. I know, for I have been there. You have no wish to go back, you say. That is right too."

"No; go back? no! I mean, instead, to step right upon the train when it comes."

"Not so fast, my little girl. You must do something before that."

"What is that, sir?"

"First go to the booking office and get your ticket. You cannot go without that."

"What is that?"

"It entitles you to a passage. You will be required to have it. Without it, you will be put off the train. I You will be regarded as an intruder, endeavouring to steal your passage."

'Oh, that will be dreadful. So I should be put off any where, should I?"

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Yes, any where, and be driven from the train." "And be lost?"

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Yes, be lost.

You cannot be saved or safe, only on the train; and you have no right on the train without your ticket."

"What does the ticket mean ?"

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It means that you have a right to a seat, and a safe transit all along your journey-a right to be carried safely."

"You must keep on the train. You must not leave it. If you step off, the train will go on; it will not wait for you. You will be left; and if left, you would be no better off than if you had not started. If you keep on the train, the guard will take care of you, and he will see to it that the train gets safely through, and in due time he will land you at the gate of the glorious city." "Is this all-really all ?"

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This is all. And yet it is not all. You may be tempted to leave the train. You may say, 'I would like to step off a while. I do not wish to go on any further. I am afraid this is not the right road. I am afraid I shall never get to the glorious city, even if I keep my place,' and so may think you will try some other way. All these are temptations to which you must give no heed. But keep your place, and give yourself up to the safe keeping and conduct of the guard of the train, and all will go well, and all will end well. Thus you shall reach the glorious eity."

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But I have no money. I cannot buy a ticket," said the little girl, with deep despondency.

"No matter for that. Just say you have no money with which to buy a ticket-that you want one, and wish

to go to the glorious city; ask, and you will get a ticket, though you have no money."

So they stepped together to the booking office, and the little girl said, "I am a little child, come from a very bad place, where all the people are going to destruction. I have heard of a glorious city; I want to go thither; am told this is the only road leading to it; wish to take the train; have no money to buy a ticket; I am a poor little child, striving to get to the glorious city."

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You shall go. You shall have a free passage and a free ticket. You must obey all the directions and keep your place in the carriage, and you shall go straight to the glorious city, without money and without price. The Lord and King of the city is the proprietor of this road. All you have to do is to commit youself to the care and keeping of the Great Guard, and you will arrive safely. He takes the best of care of the smallest passengers, and invites all to come into the train. Thousands have gone over the road. Thousands are going every day. Millions of little children, like you, are already within the gates. They walk the streets of the celestial city, singing unceasing songs and everlasting anthems."

He ceased speaking, and handed her the ticket.

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For nothing?" she inquired, as she stretched forth her hand to receive it.

"For nothing. Simply ask and you shall receive; and the more you believe the more you will receive."

THE RUINS OF POMPEII.

THE manners of the Romans are here laid open to inspection, as if we had lived with them; and had all their household and toilet implements which were discovered unimpaired, and which are now preserved in the Museum at Naples, been left as they were found, they would have composed the most interesting museum that can be conceived. The mind receives here the astonishing impression of a nation risen from the dead, their daily life actually passing before our eyes, and in a manner that no history could teach or private memoirs unveil. They are before us who were suddenly stopped by the hand of death in the midst of their daily occupations, labours, and pleasures; surrounded by all the paraphernalia of luxury, the attributes of their various professions, or the circumstances of their daily occupations. The storm came, but swept them not away from the face of the earth like other men who depart and are