priate punishment. Why then are we told of these things? To assure us, as the Israelites of old were assured, that it is not for any goodness or virtue inherent in ourselves that God is pleased to choose us; that it is not for our righteousness that the Lord our God giveth us this good land to possess it.' And also to remind us of what we are most prone to forget; 'Who maketh thee to differ? Or what hast thou that thou hast not received? And if thou received'st it, why gloriest thou as if thou hadst not received it?' It is remarkable too, how the saints of old were allowed to betray their natural depravity in those particular modes in which we should have least expected it. Men would have been glad to have said that Abraham had naturally a disposition to faith in God; that Moses was so constitutionally mild, that although apt to sin in other ways, he was free from any danger of intemperate anger; and that Peter's natural intrepidity would make him cling the closer to his Master in danger.-But this delusion is not allowed by God's word, which shows us that when to try them and prove them, and shew what was in their hearts,' God suffered his children to fall into temptation, they instantly exhibited the sinfulness of their nature in the most decided manner, by showing

that even in their best estate and condition they were altogether vanity.”

"You have expressed my meaning better and more to the purpose than I could have done myself," said Mr. Conroy; "but tell me, how far do you consider that God may be said to put, or lead his children into temptation?"

"I think," said Mr. Harding, “that the first and constant cry of a child of God, when brought into knowledge of, and communion with him, will be, Shew me thy ways, O Lord, and teach me thy paths. I will run the way of thy commandment, for therein is my delight.' And such an one will keep close to his Guide, as a child just beginning to walk, holds fast by the finger of its nurse. By and by, however, it steps more firmly, and a little infantine pride springs up in its heart; it will now thrust away the guiding hand of the nurse and walk in its own strength, thinking, like the Psalmist, I shall never be moved.' Then the nurse, with a kindness mixed with judgment and foresight, leaves the little thing to its own ways, following it only with the eye. Soon, after a few exulting steps, the child falls to the ground, covering itself with dust, and wounding its hands; then with instant cries it turns and runs back to its

guide, with penitent humility, to have its hurts healed: just as the Psalmist after his grievous fall, cries out, Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow; make me to know joy and gladness, that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice.""

This conversation might have continued longer, had not Mrs. Harding been called away by a message from the poor woman whose child she had been attending, informing her that the little girl had had a relapse, and was alarmingly ill. Mrs. Harding went to see it immediately. She was one of those kind-hearted persons who are always ready for any act of charity, never seeming to consider that she had any aim in life but to devote herself to the good of others. She was strongly influenced by a desire that all she did might redound to the glory of God, and was willing to sacrifice time, ease of body, and every other advantage, for this end. She had very sincere and ardent feelings of gratitude for the spiritual light which had been vouchsafed to her, and her heart sought every means by which this principle might be manifested.

It was late in the evening before she returned; and the clock struck eleven just as Mary wished her good night at her dressing room door.

"I hope, Mrs. Harding, you'll go to bed soon, you look very pale and exhausted."

"I do feel tired, my dear, but I must sit up some time longer, for I have the psalms and lessons of the day to read yet. I always read them at night before I go to rest.”

"The psalms and lessons," repeated Mary in a tone of surprise, "you surely won't read them to night! indeed you ought to go to bed, you don't know how poorly you look.”

"My dear Mary, you couldn't suppose that I should close my eyes without feeling I had performed my duty to God, after all His tokens of mercy to me; I hope I shall never be allowed to do so."

"Do you think it then a duty, when you are exhausted by the fatigue and anxiety of nursing that poor little child, to sit down and read a long portion of Scripture, while you are not fit to attend to any thing?"

"My dear, I don't consider that my fatigue should be any reason why I should neglect what I consider right; we must do our duty and not think about inconveniences."

"But," said Mary, rather diffidently, “I don't see in what way you can imagine it to be a duty; I can't think that God intends religion to be a hard service. When the body is weary and the

mind exhausted, we are not capable of deriving benefit from reading of any kind; on the contrary I think we generally feel it an irksome task, and wish it over."

“That, my dear, is no reason for our omitting it, we must try and not feel it irksome; and as to wishing it over, that is very sinful, and we should not indulge it."

"But, Mrs. Harding, we cannot suppose that our forcing ourselves to read while in that state, can be of any advantage to our own souls, and as to God still less can it benefit Him. It seems to me just like a beggar expecting to please his benefactor, and to get a reward for eating the dinner with a good appetite, which he has provided for him. What does the benefactor gain? it is the poor destitute man who reaps the benefit; he eats when he is hungry, and thanks the giver. I think the reading is rather like judging it necessary to eat against his inclination, that he may take more, and so please the giver better."

"Why! Mary, would you omit feeding your soul because your inclination did not go with it?"

"No! I wouldn't neglect to feed my soul by the perusal of the Scriptures, but I would consider it as my privilege and pleasure, and read