receive. Abuse not the generosity of that "great king" who has extended his patronage to you-assigned you a place and provision, not merely in his household, but in his family.

A father is the governor of his house; he devises the rules of his domestic economy, and has a right to the respect and obedience of his children. He provides for our necessities, shields us from harm, ministers to our pleasures, and the least we can do in return, is to fulfil his wishes: so should we, "understanding what the will of the Lord is," ever seek "to do His pleasure!" He makes known to you in his Word the rules of his household; fail not to be conformed to them. A tender father is considerate of his children's wishes and dispositions, provokes them not lest they be discouraged; wins them to obedience by providing for their enjoyment; chastises in sorrow for their profit rather than for a sacrifice to his own displeasure. God doth not willingly afflict nor grieve the children of men, but "daily loadeth us with benefits."

Just Son

If he chasten, it is for love, and "if we have had fathers of our flesh, and when they corrected us we gave them reverence, shall we not much rather be in subjection to the father of spirits and live?" "His commandments are not grievous," and “in keeping them there is great reward!"

One word of warning. There is a limit even to God's forbearance! O! who would not dread the sentence, “Let him alone." "Woe unto the wicked for it shall be ill with him!" "God will cast them away, because they will not hearken unto him." Stay thy foot young man in the downward course; return, oh backsliding daughter, for yet there is time! Haste to the throne of grace; plead the promise In Thee the fatherless find mercy; plead the atoning sacrifice of our Lord Jesus Christ; and for his dear sake, you will hear your heavenly father speak again in loving tones: "I will heal their backsliding, I will love them freely for my anger is turned away."

That each of you, my dear young orphan brothers and sisters, may find your bereavement sanctified to your souls best interests, is the earnest wish of

Your affectionate friend,

A fatherless daughter,
E. W. P.

Justice Wilvermore was lying in a comfortable chamber; the heavy damask curtains were drawn on each side of him, and a down quilt was spread over him.

It was a bitter, bitter, night, but a clear wood fire burnt upon the hearth; and though he could hear the wind moaning outside among the leafless trees, and the sharp sleet driving against his windows, not a waft of the first came through to make him shiver, and as for snow or sleet, he was not troubled with the sight of them; for when he looked towards his window he only saw the dancing, flickering flame, shining on his crimson curtains.

As he lay awake that night do you think he was occupied in reflecting on what a good thing it was for him that a warm roof, an ample supper, and abundant clothing, were protecting him from the wind and cold?

Nothing of the kind;-he had all his life been accustomed to live in abundance and luxury. If his fire had burnt badly, his curtains been left undrawn, or his supper ill-cooked, he would no doubt have been very angry, and would have occupied himself for a long time in thinking of the neglect, ignorance, and stupidity of his servants. As it was, they had merely done their duty; and, as for him, he had a right to be waited on, for he could pay his attendants. He had a right to eat, wear and use the best of everthing, for the same reason. He had been born to a good estate, and could not remember the time when these things had been otherwise. Therefore, when he heard the wind and the sleet, he never considered what a good thing it was that he was not exposed to them.

What, then, did he think about?

Did he think what a sad thing it was, that along the valley which stretched away under his windows, and up the bleak hill-side beyond it, and on either side the frozen sheet of water, should stand those old half-ruined cottages, whose rattling casements and ill-thatched roofs let in both wind and snow to the half-clad half-fed inmates? No, certainly not. Why should he have been occupied with them on that particular night more than on all other nights. He had always been

accustomed to see them. Of course the people who inhabited them were poor; he could never remember the time when some of them had not been sick and complaining. The hovels were quite an eye-sore-so shabby and forlorn; but it was not worth his while to build better ones-that would only encourage more paupers to come to his estate. What reason could there be for his thinking of them just then? They had been born to poverty; and if they had not provided against the cold and the snow, they were at least well accustomed to endure their rigour. Nothing new had come upon them.

I cannot tell what he was thinking about. I only know that while the little flames were still creeping over the logs of his fire he fell asleep, and after awhile he began to dream.

He dreamt that some person was kneeling in front of his fire. He could not see the figure very distinctly; but it seemed to shiver, and spread out two trembling hands towards the flame. It was clad in a thin and scanty cloak.

"Dear me," exclaimed the Justice in his dream," that's old Susan Morley; what business has she to intrude here in those faded tatters, and warm herself at my fire? How dare she? I'll ring the bell."

He was just putting out his hand when he perceived another figure close at his side.

"Who are you?" exclaimed the Justice, very much startled, for the fire had burnt low, and he could only discern the dark outline of this new intruder.

He thought, in his dream, that the figure moved a step backward, but made no answer. "Who are you?" shouted the Justice in a great passion; "how dare you disturb my rest? I'll make you pay dearly for it. Who are you?"

Instead of answering, the figure turned towards the fire and pointing to the old woman, said in a calm, cold voice, “Who is that?"

"Who is that!" repeated the Justice, somewhat awed by the solemn manner; "that is old Susan Morley, a pauper, and one of my tenants. I sent her to prison some time ago for stealing wood. I'll take her up again to-morrow for breaking into my house at night.”

The figure, on hearing this, was silent. The Justice, in his

dream, began to hope that these unwelcome visitors would retire; but he was disappointed, for presently the serious voice began again.

"Into your house," it said, "by night or day, I shall freely and constantly come; and whomsoever I choose I shall always bring with me. I came here to-night to know from you the history of this woman."

"You may tell it yourself, if it is to be told to-night," said the Justice hardily. I dare say you know it as well as I do." "I will," was the answer.

"And you may tell her first to move aside," continued the Justice in his dream, "for she kneels between me and the light and warmth."

"She does," replied the figure," and so from henceforth she will."

Never before had he heard a voice so steady and stern; but he did not fear it so much as the silence which followed.

"Whoever you may be," he said at length, "speak out and tell me your errand."

"This woman," the voice began, "was born into the world on the same day that you were. Sixty-three years of prosperity, comfort, ease, and abundance, find you hale and hearty at the end of them. Sixty-three years of pining poverty, care, sickness, and toil, have made her a broken-down woman, bent with the infirmities of an early old age. She has lived within sight of your doors-she has seen your abundance-and you have seen her poverty; have you sent her food from your over-loaded table, or fuel from your woods, or have you repaired the brokendown hovel in which she dwells?"

The Justice was silent for awhile; then he answered, in a low voice," I have paid her her wages."

"She has laboured all her life on your lands, and you have paid her her wages? Were those wages sufficient to supply her moderate wants? Did she never complain ?"

"Not very often," said the Justice in his dream; "the last time was more than three years ago."

"And what did she say then?"

"She said she lived very hard, and her wages would scarcely keep soul and body together."

"And your answer?"

"My answer was, that if I raised one, I must raise all; and my wages were the same as my neighbours."

"Go on-"

The Justice was constrained to proceed, for the questioner stooped towards him, and listened for his answer.

"She said, my neighbour's lady was charitable, and gave away coals and clothing to the laborers, especially to the old." I replied that I had no wish she should continue to work for me; she was welcome to go to my neighbour."

"And what then?"

"She answered that she hoped I was not offended; she would not have spoken, if she had not been getting lame, and past her best days."

"To which you replied ?—”

"That I should be deeply offended, if it ever happened again, especially if she ever dared to stop me with her complaints at the church door.”

"And what did she say to that?"

"Nothing."

"Then, have you never spoken with her since ?"

"Yes, I committed her, last winter, for stealing faggots from my wood."

"Did you investigate the matter with care? Did you fully weigh the evidence?"

"I-I-gave it the usual amount of attention," said the Justice uneasily.

"Did she plead guilty?"

"No, she made protestations of innocence."

"Her neighbours came to petition you, did they not? that as this was the first accusation against her, you would be pleased to overlook it. And you replied, that many faggots had been stolen lately, and you were resolved to make an example of the very first thief that was detected they replied that they did not believe she was the thief. Were you fully convinced of it yourself?

"I thought it possible she might not be guilty," replied the Justice trembling; but-"

“But what?” said the voice, “Speak out!"