arrayed like one of these?" Bear they no witness to the wisdom and tenderness of Him who fashioned them? Are not their delicious odours among the pleasures and refinements of human life? Do not their leaves and stems bring health and gladness to the sick and wounded? Yes: they live not to themselves: their loveliness is for others, their fragrance for others, their healing virtue for others. And like fairy prophets they prophecy to us all, saying, "Let your lives, also, be consecrated in the beauties of holiness, to the glory of God, and the welfare of mankind." Should any one demand for such a message a clearer warrant than Nature gives, let him know that there is not a page in the Bible but rings the deathknell of selfishness, and warns against the rust and waste of man's high capabilities. The candlestick whose light is hidden shall be removed out of its place. The salt which has lost its savour shall be cast forth and trodden underfoot of men. The talent which is buried in a napkin, rather than put out to usury, shall be taken away. The fig-tree, whose sole merit is its flaunting leaves and its deceptive promises, shall be cut down and flung into the fire. The sluggard, whose hand lies idle in his bosom, shall see his vineyard overrun with weeds, and poverty and want shall come upon him like armed men. And the miserly fool who hoards up treasure for himself alone, and is not rich towards God, shall be summoned to a just judgment, and live a beggar through everlasting ages. Now the principle involved in such statements applies to the whole circle of human duties, physical or intellectual, moral or spiritual. We can serve God, in the proper meaning of that phrase, only by "serving our generation according to his will." To labour for the common goodto help forward the march of human progress-to put right "deep-rooted wrongs, and hoary abuses, and grey iniquities," and to co-operate in the social and religious regeneration of mankind-is at once the predestined work and grandest honour of man. And they who feed the hungry and shield the helpless, who instruct the ignorant and cheer the wretched, who reclaim the outcasts and save the lost, may rest assured that, inasmuch as they have done these things to the least of God's creatures, they have done them unto him, and

shall not lose their reward. In this way the greatest of all became the servant of all, and left us an example that we should follow His steps. Christlikeness is a dream, without self-denying and self-sacrificing usefulness: for, in Him, "no man liveth unto himself," but every meal is a sacrament, every day a Sabbath, and every power an instrument of blessing. As Christians our heaven-born life must burst forth into blossoms of spiritual loveliness; must diffuse its sweetscented incense like the smell of orange-groves, and must yield its precious fruitage of kindly words and kindly deeds, for the restoration and happiness of a sin-sick race.

These Lowers of the field, once more, teach s lesson on mortality. They are here “to-day” in all their winsome attractions; "to-morrow" they are withered away and "cast into the oven." Their hardier companions, the trees of the wood, may stand erect for centuries, defying wintry tempests, and growing stronger by sheer resistance; but as for them, poor fragile flowerets, a burning sun may scorch them, a biting frost nip them in the bud; or, should they escape the hazards of the seasons, the reaper's scythe mows them down and ends their brief existence.

"Man

"O dear delights of the earth and sky, Unknown, unnoticed, ye bloom and die ; Content to breathe out your lives unseen In the forests brown and the meadows green." Pathetic oracles are they of man's frailty that is born of woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also like a shadow, and continueth not." Thank God! the flowers which die in autumn blossom again in spring, and point us to the hope of a resurrection life. Death is not annihilation. It is second birth. It is the womb of immortality It is renewal of perpetual youth. If men grow in spiritual excellence as lilies "grow" by the water-courses, then that which is called death shall be for them but a transformation into the glorified humanity of the risen Saviour—a wel come transition from the chills and changes of earth to that more genial and perfect clime, where corruption shall put on incorruption, where mortality shall be swallowed up of life, and where all that's bright and beautiful shall bloom for ever.

scissors and basket in her hand, and busily she began to gather flowers, and you may be sure she picked a good many roses.

She had nearly filled her basket before she saw our rose, but when she did it was altogether too pretty to be passed over.

"I must have that one," she thought, and in another minute it was lying in the basket on the top of them all. Back into the house, with her flowers, to speak to her mamma, went the young lady first, and then along the pleasant country road leading to the dusty, busy town, which was about a mile from her home.

One of her friends was going to be married the next day, and so she was taking some flowers to her. It was almost too warm for much walking, and Ethel Manners was not sorry when she got into the town.

She had just reached her friend's house, when, turning half round, she saw a ragged child with a sunburnt, anxious face, following her.

What do you want, child?" she asked, rather sharply.

"Please, ma'am, please, do give me a flower. Tom is always talking about 'em, and saying how he do want to see one again."

"Who is Tom ?" asked Miss Manners.

"My little brother. He fell down and hurt his back, and now he can't move himself; he do want a flower so," added the child in a pleading voice.

Miss Manners, rather in a hurry, took our rose out of the basket and gave it to the girl; she was full of pleasure and happiness, and she did not want to be dist urbed then by thoughts of suffering and pain.

"There," she said, "there is a beauty for you! And look, here is a penny to buy a bun with as well. Now run away."

With a happy heart the child turned back. "Won't Tom be pleased!" she half whispered. "And a whole penny as well! I guess I'll buy him

a cake; he don't like bread."

The bun was soon bought, and very hungry the little girl felt as she held it; but her love was stronger than her hunger, and, holding both her treasures tightly, she set off running along the crowded pavements. Soon she reached the poorer quarter of the town; then she ran down a dirty narrow street, and, last of all, dived down a long alley, coming out into a square yard, surrounded by tall, gaunt-looking houses. Into one of these, and up a steep staircase, then into a close, hot room, with almost every pane of glass in the one window broken and stuffed up with pieces of rags and paper. "Is that you, Sue ?" asked a weak little voice from one corner. "I'm so glad!" and the boy, who was lying there on an old straw bed on the ground, looked up into his sister's face.

It was enough to make one's heart ache to see how pain and illness had left their marks on the

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wasted, pale features; yet there was a look of quiet patience in Tom's eyes which seemed to touch one still more. Just now the weakness and weariness

was almost more than he could bear; and it was with a very piteous look that he said—

"Oh, Sue, I'm so hot and thirsty, and so tired." Sue bent over him so tenderly; she was only a ragged little girl, but her love for her brother was very great. See here, Tom," she said softly, and held up the white rose.

Tom's eyes brightened, and in his eagerness he tried to hold up his head; but it soon sank down again, for he was very, very ill.

"Oh, Sue, it is a beauty! where did you get it ?" he said; and then, as Sue held it down against his hot face, and he smelt its cool sweet scent, the sick boy forgot for a moment his weariness.

How happy the rose was then! It had got its work to do, and it meant to do it well too; it would try and comfort, with its beauty and fragrance, the dying boy.

"See here, Tom; I'll put it in a bottle, in some water, and then it shall stand on the floor against you, and it will last ever so long; and, oh, Tom! see I've got a cake for you, a lady gave me the flower and a penny too."

But Tom shut his eyes. "I can't eat it, Sue; I aint hungry; you must eat it yourself."

Sue was frightened; Tom must be bad, or surely a cake would tempt him, she had thought he would be so pleased with it; she could remember when they had both seen them in the pastrycook's windows and had longed for them.

"Eat a little bit, dear; it will make you feel better."

Tom looked at her and smiled.

"I am going up to heaven, Suey; Jesus will take me, and I'm so glad, only I wish you were coming too."

"You

The tears rolled down his sister's face. shan't go," she sobbed; "Tom-Tom! I can't live without you; there'll be no one to care for me then."

"There'll be Jesus, Sue. What was the verse we learnt at school? I keep forgetting; the one about being tired ?"

"Oh, I know," said Sue; "Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

"Come unto me," repeated her brother, "that means Jesus. He does not deceive, Sue; he will give us rest, and he loves you and me too, and he will take care of us. He is going to give me rest up in heaven with him, and he will take care of you because I shall ask him to."

But Sue was not to be comforted. Tom was all she had, and her whole heart was his; for they had no mother, and their father thought more of a little drink than of anything else.

with every superfluous article of clothing for the purpose. He still kept his watch, however, though he could see that the landlady's eyes regarded with some suspicion the Albert chain to which it was attached. Most likely she thought it no longer depended thence, for one Monday morning, her bill being paid on Saturday night, she took means to ascertain, by asking what o'clock it was; though, unfortunately, Harry knew that the native clock in the kitchen kept time to a minute-the only thing in the house that could always be trusted to do so. But while the respect of the landlady was daily on the decrease, sinking with her lodger's evidently sinking funds, Mary's polite attentions did not diminish. Harry got to like her bright face and gleaming eyes, full at once of humour and of cunning. He even took her into his confidence so far as to ask her to realise for him the value of his spare articles of clothing. He could not bring himself to enter the places where they dealt in such things.

Mary undertook the trust with her customary “Sure, sur. I'll make the most of 'em," she added, turning over the fine linen with a critical eye. And she did. She went from shop to shop, intent on the highest price which she could obtain, heedless of the scolding which awaited her on her return, and having secured it, she brought it faithfully to Harry and counted it out in triumph. He gave her a sixpence-not the first he had given her-which she proceeded to turn on the palm of her hand and kiss.

"What is that for, Mary ?" he asked. "Luck! sure."

"You get a good many sixpences from the lodgers, I suppose." He sometimes talked to the girl from sheer loneliness.

"And why don't you go now?" he asked.

"I've got too much to confess,” she replied, with her broad grin. Nevertheless, what Mary had said with regard to her mother was perfectly true. That very day she would seize the first opportunity to scud away at full speed, through the back slums, to the wretched cellar in which her mother, the muchabused wife of a drunken Irishman, lived with her three little ones, to deposit with her the welcome coin. And she could no more be hindered by threats, or even beatings, tried by various of her employers, from thus scudding home, than a wild bird can be prevented from flying with food to its nest while its wings are free.

Again, in spite of every effort to keep it, Harry's last dollar had disappeared. He still had his watch; but he had resolved not to part with that, and he clung to his resolve. He thought he would starve rather than part with it, and he was in a fair way of being put to the test. The chain, however, might go; and again his lodging-house bills were paid, and his landlady looked more suspicious than ever.

He certainly ought to have left the place, where he seemed to be so little wanted, instead of remaining till it was out of his power to go; but he had acted on the principle that "a rolling stone gathers no moss;" also, a dislike to give in had something to do with it.

At last, however, he was forced to give in. Starving was no such easy matter. He went out one morning to seek the berth of a common sailor, and work his passage to anywhere-what did it matter where, to him?

But privation was telling upon him, for before he had gone a hundred yards he felt so sick and giddy that he was obliged to return to his lodging. He had been feeling very tired for several days, and now he threw himself upon his bed with a feeling of utter weariness, mental and bodily, as if he no longer cared what became of him, if only he might be allowed to lie there and die in peace. And it seemed as if he would be left there long enough. The landlady, seeing that her lodger was perfectly satisfied with the attendance of her "help," no longer waited on him in person. No one had noticed his return to the house, and a little while before his usual time of making his appearance, Mary, released from more pressing duties, rushed up-stairs, and burst into the room in order to tidy it for him.

Lor, sur!" was her exclamation, as she advanced towards the bed, with her broom and pail in either hand.

Harry raised his head. "I am very ill, Mary; but don't say anything about it, and don't let any one come up here."

"Never a sowl," replied Mary, resolutely.

"Thank you; that's a good girl," he murmured. "Never a sowl but meself shall see to him,"