ment to the grand systems of matter and mind no less a sum than £20. And it is well known to see to it that nothing be lost. The same lesson is inculcated by the life and teaching of the Lord Jesus. Nothing is clearer than the manner in which, from first to last, the God-man economised his Divine power. Though capable of working miracles to deliver himself and those identified with him from numerous dangers and discomforts, he refuses to do so unless absolute necessity demand. Where his penetrating gaze and all-wise mind decided that human agency could suffice, there his supernatural power was repressed; and even where necessity claimed his miraculous interference, he interposed only so long as necessary. Occasionally, and then always most thriftily, did Jesus bring into operation that omnipotence which he possessed. He did nothing simply to kindle wonder in a thoughtless crowd, or gratify merely idle curiosity. Human extremity had always been reached before his Divine energy was displayed. This is shown in all his miracles, but specially so in that of his feeding 5,000 persons from five loaves and two fishes. He knew the exact number of people present; he knew their necessitous condition; he waited till the disciples were anxious about the lot of the people, and till their anxiety brought them to his feet for counsel and aid—then, instead of supplying the necessities of the multitude in a direct and signal manner, he commanded the disciples to break the five loaves to the people; and as they broke the bread, the store increased-distribution was not diminution. No wonder that the Master who himself was so supremely careful of his power, said, "Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost." It was the same great Teacher who spake that striking parable of the steward who had wasted his master's goods, and who, at the close of the parable drew the moral, "He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much: and he that is unjust in the least is unjust also in much." With the infinite God, in the operations of nature, practising and teaching frugality; with the example and instructions of the Lord Jesus, the incarnate Wisdom-who needs marvel when we pronounce frugality a Divine and blessed thing? Let us, then, exercise it in relation to our money. It is by the careless disposal of small sums that many are to-day in want, who might have been blessed with a sufficiency. We have heard of a lady, who, carefully saving all the cuttings when at needlework, selling them and putting the proceeds in the savings' bank, had, by principal and interest, accumulated in the course of some years enough to purchase a handsome gold watch, and leave about £500 standing at the bank in her We have heard of the dust and shavings from a bookbinding establishment, where gold leaf is used for the edges of books, being sold for name. that there are certain Jews who obtain a fair livelihood by purchasing, at a very small sum, the broken pieces of gilt frames, and then consuming them in a furnace so as to obtain the gold. Such cases surely prove the importance of gathering up the fragments, and carefully employing the minor coin which pass through our hands. "Without economy none can be rich, and with it few can be poor." It will be well for us if instead of wasting our property on the one hand, or worshipping it by penuriousness on the other, we use it prudently, frugally, cautiously. Let economy be cultivated in relation to our time. Instead of being always in a hurry, or having time for idle gossip and indifferent pursuits, which are evident signs of weakness of character, we should seize upon the moments and employ them to our advantage. Much more could be accomplished, by every reader of this paper, if we learned how to husband our time. It was by gathering up the moments that Doddridge wrote his "Exposition," and Kirke White acquired the knowledge of Greek, and our old Puritan divines penned their voluminous treatises. Madame de Genlis, whose writings in various styles of literature are so numerous, produced several of her popular books by employing the few minutes she waited daily for the young princes whom ske educated. "We all complain," says Seneca, “of the shortness of time; and yet we have more than we know what to do with. Our lives are spent either in doing nothing at all, or in doing nothing to the purpose, or in doing nothing that we ought to do. We are always complaining that our days are few, and acting as though there would be no end of them." There should likewise be economy in our resolu tions. Looking on all sides of any and every position we are invited to take, we should display the greatest caution before forming our resolutions; but when the decision has been formed under the direction of an enlightened and unprejudiced judg ment, we should unflinchingly adhere thereto. Alas! what a heap of broken vows lies in the past of some men's lives! All that remains of favourable circumstances, religious privileges, constantly-received mercies, and repeatedly-impressed feeling, is a number of shattered, fragmentary resolutions -a pile of dishonoured promissory notes. Frugality says, "Gather up the fragments." Let not one of the resolutions worthy of being carried into execution lie neglected. In relation to the past, let us cancel all the dishonoured notes of promise by one good resolution of consecration to the noble, the virtuous, the true, the God-like; and for the future let us learn to say with Bishop Hall, “I will study more how to give a good account of my little, than how to make it more." "HANDSOME IS THAT HANDSOME DOES." 335 W "HANDSOME IS THAT HANDSOME DOES." HE breakfast-table was laid cosily in the sunny parlour at Emersely Hall, but no one seemed inclined to partake of any breakfast just yet. Mary Stanhope stood at the window by her uncle, watching him anxiously as he glanced hastily over the letter she had just handed him. "Yes, Mary; Blanche will arrive this evening, I hope," said Mr. Stanhope; "and your Aunt Louisa says she may spend a fortnight here." "Oh, I am so glad! What fun we shall have together! May I take the letter to my aunt, and ask if she will allow me to drive down to the station with her this evening to meet Blanche ?" "Yes; here it is," said Mr. Stanhope, as he handed the open letter to his niece; "and you may order the phaeton at the same time. The train is due at a quarter-past six." At this moment Mrs. Stanhope entered the breakfast room, and readily granted Mary's request. She was an only child; her parents were in India, and she had been living with Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope for the last eight years. She was not a pretty child, and had not improved in appearance as she grew older; and now, in her thirteenth year, she was decidedly plain-looking, but an affectionate, amiable girl, thoroughly unselfish and most anxious to please every one, especially her aunt and uncle, whom she had easily learned to love, and whom she regarded now almost as second parents. A visiting governess from the neighbouring town of Emersely came every second day for a couple of hours to teach Mary, but she had a month's holiday now, and her uncle had written to ask if her Cousin Blanche, who was about the same age as Mary, might come and spend some time with them. Mary had never seen this cousin, but had often heard her aunt and uncle speaking of her as a pleasant, amiable, clever girl; and the governess, who also taught Blanche some years before, had told Mary that at that time she was the most perfectly handsome child she had ever seen. As they all sat at breakfast one morning about a week after Blanche's arrival, Mr. Stanhope told his nieces that he and their aunt would be obliged to go into Emersely the next day for a morning's shopping, and, giving them a sovereign each, he said they might come too if they liked, and lay out their money. This proposal met with a ready assent, and when Blanche and Mary had thanked their uncle, they went off together to consult how they should spend their money. Mary had long wished for a bracelet of her father and mother's hair, and was in much delight at the prospect of being able to have one now; while Blanche thought of at least twenty different things she wanted, but finally decided on a gold locket, into which she would have her mother's photograph fastened. In the afternoon Mrs. Stanhope told the girls she expected some friends to tea the next evening, but had forgotten to send off one note, and asked them to drive into Emersely and leave it at Mr. Clifford's. Blanche and Mary readily consented, and a few minutes more saw them on the road to Emersely. When they had left Mrs. Stanhope's note, and as they drove slowly back through the town, Blanche suggested that, as they were in no hurry home, they should stop at one of the jeweller's shops and look at some lockets. "No, Blanche; we cannot do so," said Mary. "Aunt told me never to go shopping unless she was with me." "Yes, but I don't want to buy anything, you know-only just to look at the lockets; and you could inquire what they would charge for making the hair bracelet, Mary." "No, Blanche; I cannot go, and I wish you would not either. Aunt would not like it." 'Nonsense; I am not going to spend my sovereign, I assure you, and I don't think there is any danger that the shopman will eat me." So saying, Blanche, who was quite determined upon having her own way, desired the coachman to stop at the next jeweller's. It was a small, rather poor-looking shop, and Blanche had not entered it many minutes when she came back again with a very perplexed face, and took her seat in silence by her cousin. "Oh, Mary!" she whispered, as they drove away from the shop; "what shall I do-I have lost my sovereign ?" "Lost your sovereign! Blanche?" asked Mary. Are you quite sure, "Yes; quite sure. I have no pocket in this muslin, so I slipped the sovereign into my glove when we were leaving home, thinking perhaps I should like to buy something in Emersely, and now it is gone; what shall I do ?" "I think we had better drive back to Thompson's again, and ask them to search the shop; you might have dropped it there." "No, I know I did not; I missed it a minute or two after I went into the shop. What shall I do? Uncle will be so angry, and I can't have the locket after all." "No, I don't think I need; you know uncle said we might spend it as we liked." The next morning, after breakfast, the phaeton was brought round to the hall door, and Mrs. Stanhope went up-stairs to get ready, desiring her two nieces to do so too. When she returned to the drawing-room a few minutes afterwards, dressed for her drive, she was surprised to find Mary still sitting there, and inquired why she had not gone to get ready. Poor Blanche ! She knew her aunt was waiting for her answer, and that a full disclosure must follow; so she looked imploringly at Mary, who was still standing by the window. Mary immediately came forward, and going up to her aunt, she explained all in a low voice, making as many excuses as she could for Blanche's behaviour, and begging Mrs. Stanhope not to say anything more about it at present. Her words were unheard by all save Mr. and Mrs. Mary coloured as she answered, "I am not going Stanhope, and old Mr. Clifford, who stood near with you to-day, aunt, thank you." Mrs. Stanhope left the room, wondering greatly at Mary's embarrassment; but having full confidence in her at all times, she determined not to ask any more questions. At seven o'clock the same evening, Blanche and Mary were in their bedroom dressing for tea. Blanche had chosen a lovely locket-it cost twentyseven shillings, but her uncle, on seeing that she had set her heart on that particular one, had added the additional seven shillings, and her mother's photograph was already fastened into it. The guests had already arrived, and Mrs. Stanhope called her nieces forward to introduce them. Beyond a stiff nod, or a cold shake-hands, Mary was scarcely taken any notice of; so escaping as soon as it was possible, she passed over to the opposite side of the room and sat down in her favourite seat by the window, while Blanche, who became immediately the centre of attraction, remained talking to a group of ladies and gentlemen. "What a lovely girl Blanche is, Mrs. Stanhope; you really must feel quite proud of her," said one old lady, who sat by Mrs. Stanhope on the sofa. 'Yes, indeed," said an elderly gentleman who stood near her; "but what a pretty locket that is, my dear! May I look at it, Miss Blanche ?" And then added, almost involuntarily, as he unclasped it, "Oh, what a handsome face! Surely this must be your mother; the likeness is very strong." But at this moment a servant entered the room and handed something to Mrs. Stanhope, saying that Mr. Thompson, the jeweller, sent it, and that the young lady who drove through Emersely yesterday with Miss Mary had dropped it in his shop. "Why, that must have been you, Blanche. What does all this mean? I did not know you lost a sovereign?" said Mrs. Stanhope. Poor Blanche was perfectly thunderstruck. She stood speechless in the centre of the room, not daring to meet her aunt's eyes, and feeling that every one in the room was looking at her. "You lost it ? Surely there is some mistake. I did not hear you went shopping alone yesterday, and how were you able to buy that locket if vou lost your money?" them; but when Mary had ceased speaking, Mr. Stanhope remarked aloud— "Well, Blanche, if I were in your place I should be ashamed to wear that locket, seeing how you came by it. You first disobeyed your aunt yesterday, and then when you lost the money I gave you, you were selfish enough to take Mary's to buy that locket. You, Mary, acted most unselfishly and generously, and you shall not be disappointed about the bracelet." 159. What great prophet's complaint, and God's answer thereto, is recorded in one of the Epistles, as a consolation to those who despair of the success of God's work in the world ? 160. What two books of the Old Testament are they in which the Sacred Name does not once occur? 161. The great-grandmother of David was ก Gentile. 162. The son of one of the kings of Israel, with the help of his armour-bearer alone, slew twenty Philistines, and caused a panic in the rest of their army. Where do we find this? ANSWERS TO QUESTIONS ON PAGE 304. 144. Jer. xli. 8. 145. Gen. xv. 14. 146. 2 Kings iii. 15. 147. Job i. 5. 148. 2 Kings iii. 4. 149. Esther ii. 21, 22, and vi. 1, 2. 150. 2 Kings iii. 27. "What, Maude ?" and he looked at his watch; drawing-room, sir." why, it is eleven o'clock !" VOT. V. Mr. Sibley had his watch in his hand. "That's 233 & curious," muttered he to himself; "some invalid's you destroyed a book in this very room; when you whim, I suppose." threw it into the fire and burnt it ?" Very leisurely he went up-stairs. His head was full of other business; he had no room in it for Maude. He never thought of her at all. To-morrow was the day fixed for Luke Ormond to pay the debt, or else to have the Meadow Farm seized in default. It would be a glorious day for Sibley. "Ah! and should burn it again, if it belonged to an Ormond!" He spoke with a fierceness and malignity that made her start. But she recovered her air of calm authority in a moment. Hers was the superior strength of good as opposed to evil. "Since that day," she resumed, "I have been, as "Whichever way it turns out, they are ruined you know, suffering from a long illness; but yesterand I am safe," thought he, exultingly. Yet he had been in a state of anxiety greater than the occasion seemed to demand. His servants noticed that his lamp had burned in his room until the morning; that he left his food untasted; that he had been in and out of the house incessantly. As he went up the staircase, you could see that his face, for all the wicked triumph upon it, was worn and changed. "Well, Maude," and he looked in hastily, and not intending to stay a moment, "how is it you are not in bed? It is more than time." She was standing in the middle of the room, as though she had been walking up and down, in the same spirit of restlessness that haunted her father. Even in his preoccupation he could not help but notice how pale she was. day I left my room for the first time "You need not tell me that," he said, harshly and without feeling. "You are always ill, always keeping your room." Her lip trembled; it was hard, even after long usage, to endure his taunts and bitter speeches with composure. "A paper dropped from that book," she said. "I was not aware of it at the time. It was lying on the floor when you came into the room. Neither of us noticed it." His face changed perceptibly. It was impossible to misinterpret the look of alarm that spread itself over his features. Still, he concealed his feelings by a laugh. 'Is this all you want to tell me? It is scarcely worth your while to bolt us in for that," and he "Come, Maude, you are doing a silly thing. What looked at his watch with an impatient gesture. will the doctor say?" He had walked up to her, but she went to close the door after him. He could see by her manner that she had something important to say. In that critical posture of his affairs, the slightest him up. She had closed the door, and fastened it, as though she were resolved to keep out intruders. The tone of her voice was low and stifled, as if afraid a whisper might escape to other ears than theirs. "I wish to speak to you about this debt.” "What debt ?" He asked the question hastily, and in a tone of alarm. Surely she could not mean that debt. He had kept it from her sedulously. He had earnestly requested that no tidings of it might reach her sick chamber. How, then, had she heard it? What debt, Maude? Can't you speak, girl?" She did speak, in the same stifled voice, but which had yet a depth of anxiety in it, as though the matter pressed heavily on her mind and heart. The debt of which you accuse the Ormonds." Again that name. His face grew dark and dangerous in its expression; but her pure serene eye met his, and subdued it. " "It is not all; that paper was of vital importance. Much mischief, much misery, might have been spared had it been produced earlier. Can you not guess what it was?" "Not I, indeed;" and he added words it would be a shame to repeat. 66 "Then I will tell you;" and in the look she gave him, he read her full and distinct knowledge of the whole transaction, with all its fraud and malignity. 'I will tell you. It was the acknowledgment of the debt as paid; the legal receipt, duly attested, which sets the matter at rest for ever." "I-I-do not believe you. It is a--" But again her eyes stopped him; again her pure and lofty expression gave her the mastery. He drew his hand across his forehead. He felt stunned, and as if he were about to fall. What were his schemes to be upset at the eleventh hour? Was the thing he most dreaded to rise up before him in all its terrors now ?—now, on the eve of his triumph, when he had thought himself secure ? Well, be it so, and a guilty sense of relief came into his mind. The holder of the secret was his own child. No other person knew, except, indeed, his accomplice and his tool; and he was sure of him. He must have two accomplices instead of one, that was all. Maude could not, in common decency, impeach her own father. If needs be, she must be made acquainted with the hidden depths of the 'Do you remember," she said, "one day, when affair. Things she knew not of must be put in plain |