and asked leave to go at once to see Cousin Julia. When permission was granted, she hastened away, taking the new story-book in her hand, as she hoped it might amuse the sufferer, and make her forget the pain.

Julia told her a long history about the way in which the accident had happened, and said the pain of her foot was not now so bad as the disappointment of being unable to join the little party in the wood that evening. At this instant a thought dashed through Jessie's mind; but before telling Julia about it she should consult her own dear mother. So, leaving the new book with her cousin, she started for home.

'Mother,' cried Jessie, rushing in hurriedly, Mother, do you think there would be any harm in our giving up the wood party this evening, as Cousin Julia cannot come with us? She will be less sorry if she hears we are not going. Our own children will not care much where they eat grandmother's fine cake, and I think we could not be very happy at the tea-party if we remembered that poor Julia was so lonely.'

'As it is your birthday, Jessie, you are quite at liberty to choose the evening's amusement. Do just as you

like.'

This was all the kind little girl wanted. She ran again in breathless haste to tell her cousin that the tea-party in the wood was given up for the present, and that when the birthnight cake was cut, she would come down to the farm with a large slice. Julia might keep the story-book until then.

Jessie's aunt overheard these arrangements, and greatly admired this unselfish conduct; but she had little plans of her own which were not to be told to every one. When Jessie got home once more, she found a letter waiting for her. Now, the receipt of a letter was an uncommon event with Jessie, and she broke the seal with great solemnity. It was an invitation from her aunt, requesting Jessie, with her father and mother, the boys, the twin sisters, and the baby, to spend that evening at the farm

nouse. Tea in the garden and the free use of a swing were promised to the children as inducements.

Of course the kind invitation was accepted, and every one arrived in due time. Julia, who had been lifted in arms and carefully placed in an old arm-chair, was ready in the summer-house to welcome her guests. No wild strawberries were to be found here, but most temptingly rosy ones from the garden were piled in a great glass dish which occupied the centre of the table, and was well supported on either side by two smaller ones containing cream and sugar. Grandmother's cake was pronounced excellent. Little May and Ellie crowned Jessie with a wreath of rosebuds that Julia had made for them; and every one wished her many happy returns of her birthday. No party in the woods could have been merrier.

But it was neither the cake nor the strawberries that formed Jessie's birthnight feast. It was the pleasure arising from giving rather than receiving. It was the simple thankfulness of a good child-the happiness of unselfish love. It was a festival of the heart!

SUNBEAMS.

I LOVE you, golden sunbeams,
Shining bright upon the wall;
You cheer my scattered day-dreams,
Shedding light on all.

I can see you down the hollow,
Where the merry children play:
Golden sunbeams! I would follow,
Just to watch you for a day.

I can see the flowers open,

Where you fall upon the grass;

And they wear their gayest colours,
For a welcome as you pass.

I can hear the young birds twitter,
From their homes in leafy nooks;
And a thousand diamonds glitter,

When you dance upon the brooks.

Then I see a darkened chamber,
Where a maiden lies in pain ;
And a soft voice sadly murmur,
'Let me see the sun again.'

'Sister Katie, draw the curtain, Lift the window, turn the blind :

I'll be better, I am certain,

When I feel the summer wind.'

Then the sunbeams, softly stealing,
Cross the crimson-covered floor :
Some shine bright upon the ceiling,
Others rest upon the door.

And she feels their warm caresses,
When they linger on her bed,
Kiss her brow, and light her tresses
Like a glory round her head.

Ere they came, a weight of sorrows
Lay upon her heart and eyes:

Ere they go, from them she borrows

Thoughts which make the burden rise.

They had found her faint and fearful;
But they whispered in their love,-
Fearful maiden, why so tearful?

Lift, and leave all cares above!

Golden sunbeams, brightly shining

'Neath yon dark cloud's purple breast; Bringing from its brilliant lining, Messages of peace, of rest.

Oh, let us, like you, be giving

Genial light and love abroad,
That all round us, by our living,
May be cheered upon our road.

Let us labour, nothing fearing,
Earnestly and humbly, too;
For we know the night is nearing,

When we no more work can do.

SOPHIA.

THE BEGINNING OF EVIL.

HE Arabs have a fable of a miller who was one day startled by a camel's nose thrust in the window of the room where he was sleeping. 'It is very cold outside,' said the camel; ‘I

only want to get my nose in.' The nose was let in, then the neck, and finally the whole body. Presently the miller began to be inconvenienced by the ungainly companion he had obtained, in a room certainly not large enough for both. If you are inconvenienced you may leave,' said the camel; 'as for myself, I shall stay where I amı.'

HERE is a picture of a Missionary Lady teaching her class in one of the girls' schools in Bombay. Behind the girls stands the native teacher, a man whose duty it is to give