Ah, you never thought of it as part of a Divine arrangement, when, a little while ago, you, the sick, invalid wife, said, "I know not what I should have done if I had been as ill as I usually am, for when husband was ill, and the children had the hoopingcough, I seemed like a strong woman, and was able to nurse them right through their sickness." Every home has many a tale like that. When poor "Aunt Mary" was ill-Aunt Mary who was so tender a nurse, and was always at hand in times of sickness and sorrow-it happened the children were all well and strong, and could be left for you to go and see dear "Aunt Mary"; and then when Charlie had the croup, and every breath had to be watched, and mother was fairly done up, why, by that time "Aunt Mary was well again; of course she was, and was at the door with her box and smiling face, and new hope for Charlie's speedy recovery in her very step. She insisted on sitting up with Charlie that same night, and as you woke in the night you were conscious that her vigil never ceased. You heard her quiet step in the dim, cold grey of the morning, when sleep falls even on the sleepless, and you wondered, with a sleepy, shivering wonder, how she could stand it, after so long a sickness; and so we wonder on, forgetting Him who holds back the wind from the shorn lamb, who giveth strength when "the youths faint" and "the young men utterly fail."

It is something to learn for ourselves and our little ones how to weather the storm. "Every man," says an old proverb, "is a pilot in fair weather." Cannot you see Luton.

them crowding the deck and telling you of the rocks and shoals with all the confidence of old sailors, while the shores of the Channel look gay in the sunlight, and a sweet breeze just freshens the sea? But come up from below when the wind is raging through the spars, and the spray sweeps in blinding sheets across the deck. Where are all the fair-weather navigators? Who is on the watch now? Just one lonely figure, passing the raised board with his head bent to the storm. There the man has gained strength for all work, and calmness for all emergencies. Ah, that is the lonely watch that our sorrows bid us keep, if we learn the lesson well.

It would not be a bad motto to write over the homes of refuge for the homeless poor in our great cities, "Night brings all wanderers home." And thus, sorrowing friends, the night and famine of the world bring us to the warmth and light of the "Father's house."

But an end must come one day to all our strife and trouble, and our circle be broken. "The pitcher that goes often to the well comes home broken at last." We and our little ones must come to the margin of the river like the pilgrims in the wonderful dream. The years hasten, and the days when a better wisdom and a nobler household life are possible to us, are fast passing away. "The water that's past the mill grinds no corn; so with an earnest word we bid farewell to our home readers. "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might, for there is no device or labour in the grave whither we hasten."

"WATCH-NIGHT."

A STORY FOR THE NEW YEAR.

Ir was near midnight on the 31st of December, 184-, when two cabs, filled with somewhat noisy revellers, drew up before a boarding-house in J- Street.

"We have had such a jolly time!" cried one, as, in answer to a loud ring and repeated knocking, the proprietor himself appeared. "Such a jolly time!" he repeated, as if determined to have an answer of some sort : " don't you hear me?"

The landlord smiled; and, being a goodtempered fellow in his way, made answer that he was happy to say "yes."

"Happy to say yes! You look like it, don't you?" said the lad-he was scarcely eighteen. Then, with a laugh, he added, "Give us something to drink, Bryce: I'm thirsty."

"Bring water, then," said a voice from behind the speaker: "he has had too much brandy already."

"Have I, though?" cried the boy : "what do you know about it ?"

"More than I like, Frank, I assure you. But go in and keep quiet."

It was an order more easily given than obeyed; but the tone of command in which the words were uttered was not without its influence. Walking as steadily as he could, poor Frank made his way to a sofa in the dining-room, and, after a few feeble jests and unheeded calls for brandy, fell asleep.

Meanwhile the elder Gibson, or, as his "friends" called him, Gibbs, lounged wearily in an easy-chair by the fire.

"I suppose," said he, looking at his watch, "that our dear old Methodistical friends down in the country are at this moment on their knees; for it is 'Watchnight,' and on the stroke of twelve."

His companions laughed, and the young man, thus encouraged, proceeded to give them a humorous description of the manner in which he and Frank-both being then, as he phrased it, "religious dogs"had been wont, in years past, to spend New Year's Night at their 66 maternal grandmother's." This occasioned much mirth; and the bursts of laughter which followed every allusion to the venerable Christian whose memory would, for her own and his mother's sake, have been sacred

to Henry Gibson had he not been inflamed with wine-disturbed, though it did not entirely break, the slumbers of the boy upon the sofa.

"He is done up," said one, as a long sigh and convulsive start made them all look round suddenly. "He can't stand it

as we do, can he ?"

"No, and he makes such a fool of himself," said Gibson. He spoke gravely now, as well he might. "I could have thrashed him in the omnibus, with all my heart!"

"But, after all, it makes fun," said another, laughing.

"Fun do you call it? You would give it another name if he was your brother." "That might be; for I see that it bores you dreadfully."

"I should just think it did! To have him here drunk every night of his stay in town, brawling with any fellow who may chance to jostle him, and wasting his time and money in low amusements, is a bore, Pauly; no mistake about that!"

"But you wished him to come," remarked Pauly.

"I know; and a senseless fool I was to do it. He came up to spend Christmas, and to see the world, and he has seen it, with a vengeance!"

"It is strange," said the other, "and so 'green' as he was when he came, too."

"And is still, spite of rows and tomfoolery," replied Gibson. "I tell you, ever since that first night at Hudson's, when two glasses of whisky-and-water made him silly, he has been neither more nor less than a disgusting idiot."

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Why don't you send him back to his mamma ?" asked a young man who had hitherto smoked his cigar in silence.

"Eh, sir ?" said Gibson, turning sharply upon the speaker, "my mother is

Dead, thank God!" said a voice from the sofa. "Oh, Harry, I did not think it would come to this!"

The poor boy was awake. He had heard all, and the hearing had sobered him. "It would have broken my mother's heart," he went on bitterly, "to know that one of her sons led the other to the brink of ruin, and then called him fool and idiot for plunging in; so let us be very thankful that she is dead!" He ceased, and for a few minutes no one spoke; but at last, trying

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hard to shake off the heavy hand which at this moment conscience laid upon his soul, Gibson said, "You are talking wildly."

"And speaking truth."

"That may be so, but before too many witnesses. You can tell me to-morrow."

66 To-morrow! said Frank. "It is Watch-night, and to-morrow is New Year's Day, is it not? I will begin the New Year by going home.”

"You are unjust," cried Henry. "I appeal to the others, who can all bear witness that I have tried hard to prevent your making such a fool of yourself.” His brother laughed.

"Yes, that was all! I might be as wicked as I pleased, so long as I fell in with the fashion.' Why, you drink three times as much as I; but you have the wit to conceal your vice, while I, poor dupe! make myself, as you kindly observe, a fool. Oh, it is wonderful to see how cleverly you manage to sin without attracting more attention than is consistent with what the world calls respectability; to drink deep, and yet not be, in the world's opinion, a drunkard; to delight in secret wickedness, and yet have a reputation for strict morality; to decoy the young and comparatively innocent into the snares of the fowler, and then scorn them because they know not how to conceal their degradation! Wonderful!"

He sat down, looking keenly at one and another, as if expecting a reply; but none was offered. One by one, and in silence, the spectators of that sad contest went out, and the two miserable Gibsons were left alone.

The night wore on; the morning slowly dawned; twiight as slowly brightened into day; but still these brothers were unreconciled. The New Year's first gleam of sunshine looked in upon them; the world awoke; but still the gulf between them was deep and wide. At last, overcome by fatigue, Frank fell back heavily upon his pi lows, and slept the troubled sleep of the unhappy. His brother watched him for a little while, then rose, bent over him, and touched his hair-it was very like his mother's with trembling gentleness. Looking down on the smooth young brow, the long dark lashes, the flushed cheeks, and the restless limbs, he asked himself more than once how he had dared to invite such a boy to "see life" in London. Could it be possible that he-the eldest son of a mother of whom the world was not

worthy-had pitied the younger because he was yet a novice in the ways of vicious men? Had the guilt and folly of the last thirty days been real? And, if so, how could he meet her at the judgment-bar of God?

This was Henry Gibson's Watch-night.

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He sat there thinking until he dared think no longer. Then, hiding his face on the pillow, he tried to pray. He had sinned from the very first against God's light. voice within had remonstrated and proved, but he had steadily refused to heed its warning. Now, he thought, retribution had begun. What if the boy should be lost, altogether lost!

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While these thoughts passed through the mind of the elder brother, Frank dreamed of home. His mother-so his fancy told him-was still alive, sitting once more, on the first morning of a new year, beside his bed, with her cool hand upon the brow which had always been given to aching. They were talking of Henry, and she was saying that he, Frank, would most surely have a kind and wise protector in his brother. Then he thought she was kneeling down and praying that her boy might turn out well, and crying a little when she spoke of her own probable removal, not because she feared for herself, but for him who had more than once declared that she could not, should not, must not die! Poor Frank! he awoke at last to find that it was not all a dream; for there were tears upon his pillow this New Year's morning, and whispered prayers met his ear, as, with his face turned from his brother, he recalled the touching picture which had suddenly been withdrawn from his mind he knew not how.

May God, for Christ's sake, forgive, and leanse, and guide me!" The voice was Henry's. Of him, on that first morning of the year, it was said in heaven, "Behold he prayeth."

Frank lay still, for it seemed impossible to interrupt that cry for mercy. But at last, when his name was repeated more than once with a humble confession of guilt, and a prayer that rich blessings might be poured upon him from on high, he could not refrain from crying out, "Harry! Harry!

A moment more, and they were reconciled.

My story might end here, did not the interests of truth require the addition of one short, sad paragraph. The two Gib

sons were reconciled to each other that New Year's morning; but although nearly a score of such mornings have since come and gone, and although the elder brother is reformed, not only in outward practice, but in heart, the younger is still the slave of the intoxicating cup. Most willingly would Henry Gibson give his life to undo the work of those thirty days of December, 184-, or to rescue from his degradation and misery the "poor boy "-as he still calls himwho was once so worthy of esteem and love. But it cannot be. He can only pray, hope, and labour, humbling himself in the dust before Heaven and before all who know the story; for "none of us can by any means redeem his brother, or give to God a ransom for him."

THE ANGEL'S TREASURE.

Ir was midnight when the angel of light sprang from the earth to go upward. There were sobbings and groans as he left, for he came out of a half-lighted chamber. Upward and upward he flew, and soon soared out of earth's night. Then he saw the sun before him. Onward and onward he flew, leaving the planet Venus on the righthand, and then Mars, and Saturn, and Jupiter, and the great Sun himself were left behind, far behind. Still upward he bent his flight, through the Milky Way into the vast regions of space, passing worlds and systems of worlds, straight upward and onward. At length he met a fellowangel on his way to a distant part of God's creation, so distant that it would take many thousands of our years to reach it. The beautiful and noble beings paused to greet each other.

"Whither bound, my friend?”

"To that far-off world never yet pressed by angels' feet."

"How long have you been in the Prezence since your last great work?"

"About two thousand years; yet they seem only a few hours. Time with us is hardly worth mentioning. I may now be absent many thousand years; but they are nothing -a mere drop dipped out of eternity. What have you there so carefully folded up, and carried in your bosom so tenderly?"

"A jewel from earth."

"Earth! Earth! O how much I have heard of that little world, since the Son,

who is on the throne, went there to do his great work. I have never yet had the opportunity to visit it, but I know all its history; and I have the promise that I shall go there some day before it is burned up and destroyed. Perhaps I may be sent on some errand of great mercy! I have seen multitudes who were created there, who came up to live with us in heaven. I have heard many songs, but none so loud or so sweet as theirs. They sing of redeeming love. How they sympathize with all that is done in their world! But I will not hinder you, nor will I inquire further as to your precious charge. Farewell."

"Farewell, noble one. May every blessing attend you!"

So they separated. Then upward still darted the angel, straight towards the heaven of heavens. As he entered the golden gates all made way for him, for they saw that he had brought something very precious. No one stayed him to ask a question. Through the ranks of glorious ones he passed, till he stood before the great white throne, where was light greater than a thousand suns would emit. As he bowed in awe and love, a voice came forth : "Good servant, hast thou done thine errand?" Carefully and gently the angel took from his bosom a beautiful thing. It seemed lighter than air, sweeter than the breath of morning, and seemed to float like music. The everlasting arms were stretched out to receive it. It was the soul of a little child!

"Suffer it to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven."

The beautiful little thing uttered no sound, but it seemed to thrill with joy unutterable. Then ten thousand voices broke forth into songs of praise, and all the harps of heaven seemed to awake, and the daughters of music came forth from every quarter, and uttered his praise. For through all the courts the tidings spread, that another jewel had come to shine in the eternal crown of Christ.

On earth there was a funeral. That night the mother dreamed that her little one was with her, and stretched out her arms to take it, and it was not there, as she awoke in tears. The little coffin held the beautiful body. Friends had put white flowers in the waxen hands, as they lay folded on its bosom. The whole house was

in deep mourning, for the sunbeam had been quenched. The mother sobbed, and kissed the cold face of her child, and called

it dead. And she thought of it as dead. She could not realize that Christ could love her child more than she did, or that anybody could take care of it as she could, or that any other world would be as good a place to educate and train it as this, or that any bosom could shield it as could hers, or that it was far better off than to be here. Will she ever meet it again? Will she know it among the angels of day when she next sees it? Will it have anything about it by which any one would know that it was earth-born? Will it be her child to fondle and love? Who can tell? Ah! mother, if you are a Christian, when you come to see as you are seen, and to know as you are known, you will see and feel that this removal of your child was all right, and just as you are glad to have it. Dry up your tears, then, and trust all to the wisdom and goodness of your blessed Redeemer.-Rev. John Todd, D.D.

THE LITTLE CHIMNEY-SWEEP. FROM THE GERMAN.

ON the chimney-top of a high house belonging to an old and wealthy nobleman in the city of Brunswick, there sat a little chimney-sweep, who looked with those clear blue eyes of his over the great mansions that were now shining in the rising sun. The magnificent scene brightened every moment before him, until he became no longer able to restrain his feeling, but broke forth in the following language

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"Just think of it; even a chimneysweep can be happy this glorious morning! Look at the parks, the river, those old bridges, the duke's garden; it makes me feel as rich as the duke himself. Those people walking on the streets below me don't know what a world this is; they have no idea of what a morning they are passing through. Some of them are great folks, I know; but it would be a blessing to every one of them to be chimney-sweeps this hour, if no longer. What a pity people don't live on the top instead of inside their houses! I believe I will have my bed put on the roof of my house, that

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when I am rich enough to have a house." Gotfried made many other such novel expressions as these, and all in sober earnest too; but concluded with the positive declaration, that he would rather be a dirty chimney-sweep than Emperor of Russia. He then gave a good long look around

the city, snatched up his well-worn broom, and darted down the chimney. He did not intend to slip away down to the hearth without some warning to the people; but he did. As it happened, nobody was in the room and when he looked from the fire-place out into the chamber, his eyes were perfectly bewildered with the splendour before him. Right glad was he, then, to make as general an observation from the bottom as he had from the top of the chimney. He had been inside many houses, but never had seen the interior of one like this.

"Many a time," he softly said, "have I longed to look within Count Rulman's great mansion. I have often passed by it, and have frequently swept every chimney in it, but never until this moment could I feast upon the beauties of it. I have just enjoyed nature; now I will enjoy art."

Scarcely had Gotfried finished these words, when he began to creep out from the fire-place and made a survey of the room. His first thought was to stay where he first found himself, but that was impossible. He could not see so many beautiful objects without getting a nearer look at them. Did you ever see an owl? Well, his eyes were almost as large as an owl's eyes when he glanced hastily from one splendid piece of ornament of furniture to another.

"What comfortable things these are! What cushions, and chairs, and vases, and books! I thought only a few minutes ago that I would rather be a chimney-sweep than anything else on earth; but a boy like I am would, after all, be more comfortable to eat and sleep in such a room as this, and read those splendid books too, than to live in people's chimneys, and be covered with soot until I am as black as an Ethiopian. I wonder if the count wouldn't exchange with me a month or two; I would take his house and he take my brushes. But then I would get new brooms and brushes for him; I wouldn't be dunce enough to give him my old ones. And when he sees the sunrise from the top of a chimney, he would never think of giving up his new business. More than all this, he is an old man, and can't enjoy this great mansion much longer. I am young, and strong, and healthy. An old man might as well die in the chimney as on a bed. He would die as easy too. Maybe he would find some difficulty in climbing, and letting himself down; but I would go about with him for a week, charge him