:

"It wouldn't make ye one bit the safer, Mr. Richard and as that isn't the comfort the Almighty has provided, I don't think 'twould make ye really one bit more comfortable either. Now you just look at yon tunnel; must not there be the same clearance in the dark as there is in the light ? 'twould never do to allow anything on the rails there, because it couldn't be seen from a long distance off, and taken out of the way. The engine-driver can't see with his very eyes that all is clear; but he trusts me, and all goes well.

"And remember, Mr. Richard, if a poor man like me may speak to the like of Miss Lucy and you, no one stops in that tunnel. They all pass quickly through. All our engine-men know this, when they go in. And the valley of the shadow of death isn't a place for people to stay in; 'tis only one of the parts to be passed through on the journey."

"Well, John," said the lieutenant, "I know I'm drawing fast to my journey's end. People with my complaint are often deceived, but I am not. Our doctor was my nearest friend in the regiment, and I asked him to tell me the real truth about myself; and he asked me if I really meant it; and I said I did-then he told me that I never could recover; and that I had better go home and die amongst my own people. I'm not far off from the tunnel's mouth-that I know."

The Spirit is a Spirit of peace. When there's trouble, Mr. Richard, 'tis not from God, but from a man's own self. I believe when ye come to the tunnel's mouth, ye'll find the signal there before ye; and even if ye don't see it, because of some weakness in yer sight, 'twill be there all the same: for our Father won't let us be hurt, just because we're such poor creatures as we are. If ye are on the right rails, Mr. Richard

if ye're going God's WAY-by that Jesus alone, who says, 'I am the way, and the truth, and the life,' ye'll be safe; and ye'll see the signal in its proper time and place, and where 'tis needed most."

Now round the curve of the cutting was heard a whistle; it was a train approaching; and this was its way of saying that when it came in sight of the tunnel's mouth, it would be expecting the signal. In a moment, old John Jenkinson was at his post-his little flag held steadily out; and a long train of passengers, full freighted with life and property, darted into its open mouth.

The lieutenant watched it until it had passed, and slowly turned with his sister towards home. He had learned from old John Jenkinson the secret of peace-he henceforth looked on all as settled for him-at what peace could be had through another, and not from anything in himself. His deathbed's peace came to him by "THE

OF LIFE'S LESSONS.-L.

APPY is he that knoweth and that serveth the true mission of his life, Confessing Providence his guide, through blessings and afflictions;

He that never wavered from his duty, nor shrank from faithful witness, Enduring all things cheerfully, as given by God's hand.

Let a man question with himself, What is my being's errand?

Is this my proper aim? and how shall I achieve it? Man's gain and the glory of God; my own weal and my children's;

Holiness, and happiness, and health-how best to win all good?

The godly heart and the holy life, here is the secret of happiness;

secret of health;

these:

move;

We are mainly what we make ourselves, what we suffer outer circumstance to shape us,

Too great caution, too much rashness, both alike are harmful,

wrong;

Duties omitted, duties done, combine to form our fates,

As faith and works may fashion them, or negligence and passion;

And albeit ancestry be much, that stock of special qualities

Inclined to higher or lower, to gifts or lack of gifts, Though worldly means be more, through poverty or riches,

And influences and accidents without us as within us, Though mother's milk were poisonous, or half our lessons error,

Though grace, or hap of either sort, be for us or against us,

Yet may the spirit of a man so master the material, That every hindrance shall but stand his step-stone

to success;

Therefore the limbless dwarf is seen a mental athlete, The blind, the deaf, the dumb, are great through force of will;

And thereby this life's heroes have assurance in themselves

That, spite of all and come what may, they still shall win their battles.

world.

(To be continued.)

HEN first I saw Baby Baker she was sitting on a doorstep outside a cottage at Specklefield, in Hampshire. The white, bright-looking sun-bonnet that her mother had so carefully put on her head, was pulled off, and was lying on its crown close beside her, with the strings still tied. In this said crown reposed, quietly and with perfect nonchalance in the arrangement, two tiny little socks and a tiny little pair of shoes. Baby Baker evidently hated shoes; she was kicking her little white feet up and down in the sunshine with an enjoyment that was refreshing to see. She lifted the curly golden head and the large blue eyes to me as I stood before her. I looked at the sun-bonnet, and the socks and shoes, then at the little bare feet with what I intended to be a look of reproach. I felt myself, however, that it was a comical failure; Baby Baker saw that too; she returned my glance with a half smiling,

half demure little look, and settled the matter quite to her own satisfaction-and to mine, too, for the matter of that, by saying, "Baby no like."

I saw much of the golden-haired, blue-eyed, fair little cherub after that; in fact, poor Mrs. Baker's children were all cherubs excepting Jack, and he was the scapegrace of the family-a sort of juvenile Robert Macaire, to whom all sorts of mischief and tricks came naturally. There was not a bird's nest in the neighbourhood that he was not fully ac quainted with; there was not an apple-orchard wherein he could not point out the best trees. It was always Jack who managed to go for the treacle; no one could guess why he made himself useful on those occasions until Baby saw him, one day, from her post on the doorstep, dipping his fingers into the sweet mess time after time, while he walked slowly along the village street.

At tea-time, when all the little chubby faces

appeared a few inches more or less above the round tea-table, and the tired, hot mother sat down to feed the hungry little ones, Baby refused to eat her share.

367

water, large chestnut-trees overhead; to the left a beautiful meadow, to the right more trees, with patches of a blue and golden sky between. Then the two principal figures, the fine bronzed boy of twelve,

Why?" asked the mother.

The little forefinger was pointed at the culprit, and Baby answered, "Coz Dzack-dirty Dzack--put in finnies in the cheacoo."

The little forefinger was inserted into an imaginary pot and sucked, and the story was complete.

Master Jack was not much confounded; the exposure in no way interfered with his appetite, and Baby was provided with a piece of bread and sugar, which she munched very contentedly, looking with a wise composure at Mastor Jack the while.

Nevertheless, it was Jack who loved the Baby best of all; it was Jack who ever on a half-holiday would give up a birds'-nesting expedition to take her to get primroses and violets in the lanes. Many a time I have met the splendid, dark-eyed, gipsy-looking boy with his brown curls nestled closely to the tiny sister's goldy-locks.

You must know that Baby Baker took a great fancy to me from the first, but she would never come from Jack to me; Jack might be naughty, Jack might be wicked, but Baby always loved him dearly. She would call him "naughty Dzack," at the same time throwing her arms round his neck and hugging him well.

There was a good deal of the woman in that little baby; odd and piquant perversity mixed with most winning sweetness.

One day I was walking in a pretty wooded meadow where there are many little pools. The mild-looking cows would stay all day lying under the trees, or standing in the pools drinking the cool water. On the back of one of these cows, as it stood quietly in the water, sat Baby Baker. I was horrified. I rushed forward, and almost tumbled over Jack, who was sitting on the ground, shoeless and stockingless, with his trousers turned up above his knees.

My good boy, how could you, how dared you, put that dear child there ?" I demanded rather than asked. “If the cow doesn't hurt her, she might fall into the water."

"Oh, it's all right," Jack replied. "She wanted to go, and I let her. Old Cherry's as quiet as a lamb, isn't she, Baby?" he asked the little one.

Baby was delighted; she turned her head to me and called out, Baby like it. Dzack say all yight."

I watched to see how it would end. Jack waited about till four o'clock, and then he waded into the water, and fetched the little one away on his back. It was really quite a picture to see them together so. Just imagine it: A still but not a stagnant pool of

of two on his back, I assure you I remember the scene to this day.

No one who has not seen it can imagine what a baby is amongst a lot of children. It is the little angel sent by God to teach the rest unselfishness; to wean them from moody cross tempers by its pleasant ways and its ever-changing tricks and gestures. In most households one has heard the cry, "Oh, give it up to baby, dear child-dear little baby!" and the child feels that in giving up to this pleasant Moloch, he has done a good action, and shown his superiority. So he has; it is noble to give up to the weaker.

*

Winter will come, and snows will fall; the flowers that were so bright in summer, the leaves that were so green, must fade when the cold blasts from the North arrive, and the cutting east winds and the frosts that cover the earth like a mantle. But some of the sweet flowerets die in the late days of spring, before they have tasted the summer air; some of the leaflets are snatched from the tree before the summer sun can warm them into life.

There was a sad, sad household within that cottage door at Specklefield. Outside the noiseless snow lay thick and deep; inside, as pure as the snow and as noiseless, lay little Baby Baker; white-white in death, with the lovely eyes veiled from earth, already seeing the joy of the immortals, with the sweet little dimpled hands folded, clasping a pure white lily that Jack had reared for her when she lived.

I shall never forget that tearful group standing round the bed where the lovely little body lay-the hard rough father bowed like a child, with the fastflowing tears trickling through his fingers—the careworn mother trying to stay her own tears to comfort her husband; poor Jack heaving with great wrenching sobs, and the other children huddled together with pale faces and wondering eyes, hardly understanding that the little voice they had loved to hear was hushed for ever.

The last time I was at Specklefield I strayed into the churchyard. It was a lovely evening; the sun was just going down in a perfect flood of glory. I was going to Baby Baker's grave; I knew whom I should find there.

"Well, but, Jack," I said, "you are better than you used to be."

Jack looked at me doubtfully for a moment, then he said, "You won't laugh at me, ma'am?"

"My dear boy, no," I answered. “Then,” he said, "for one thing, I have vowed never to touch a bird's nest again. Who knows? if I loved that baby so, they-they might"

Jack fairly broke down here.

Presently he recovered himself, and went on manfully.

"I intend, too, with God's help, to begin a trade, and get on in it, too, and help my father and mother."

"What do you mean to be?" I asked.

"A gardener," he replied, and added, with something of the old spirit, "and I'll bet my white lilies shall beat every other gardener's for miles round."

That came to pass. Jack Baker's white lilies are renowned in Hampshire. I have one near me nowJack's present; and I never look at it without thinking how God uses even a baby's influence for his own wise purposes, and how the little creature "being dead yet speaketh." Baby Baker was surely one such.