the matter. But before he could shut the door, Maxwell, who had been passing through the lobby, came in. 'What are you fellows about? Hallo, Harry! are you getting your foot cut off?'

He had an accident; but it's all right now,' said Rawlett.

"You horrid liar,' cried Tommy, quite roused by indignation from his usual state of good-humoured laziness, 'it was you who did it! He burned Harry's foot with the hot poker, Maxwell.'

'You abominable bully!' said Maxwell, collaring Rawlett. 'Don't try to tell any lies about it now, for I would believe Tommy before I would believe half a dozen fellows like you. But why did you fellows let him do it? Horace, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for not sticking up for your brother. Why do you let that fellow bully him? Hand me over that strap, Sydney. Mr Rawlett, it's my turn to bully.'

Now,

Maxwell then laid Rawlett on the floor, and stood guard over him till he had plaited the strap into a very formidable-looking instrument of punishment, with which, when finished, he bestowed upon him a thrashing which made that young gentleman howl in his turn, and frightened him from ever bullying again—at least when Maxwell was at hand.

'Now, Harry,' said Maxwell, when he had performed this duty to his satisfaction, 'let's see your foot. Hallo! this is a nasty business. You had better come with me to Mrs Dunning and have something put on it.' 'Oh, no, I would rather not!' said Harry. 'Don't let Mr or Mrs Dunning know anything about it. I don't want to get Rawlett into a scrape.'

'I don't think the animal deserves your consideration,' said Maxwell with a scornful glance at the bully, who was now sobbing in a corner, partly with rage, and partly with pain. 'But perhaps you are right. It's not the thing for fellows to go to masters with stories against one another; and I suppose you would have to explain how

it happened, and so Rawlett would come in for another thrashing besides the one I gave him, which ought to last him for some time. But remember this, Rawlett, that I'll give you twice as much if I ever catch you bullying again.' Horace felt terribly ashamed of himself, and still more so when he and Harry were alone in their bedroom, and he saw Harry bite his lips and start with pain as he drew off his stocking. The burn now looked so red and inflamed that Horace grew quite alarmed, and called Tommy Miller from the next bedroom into council, who, after much profound deliberation, recommended that a wet handkerchief should be wrapped round the footadvice which it was not difficult to carry out. Horace did all he could to make up now by kindness and attention for his neglect of his brother; and when he had tied up the foot and tucked him comfortably in bed, he said awkwardly,

'Never mind, Harry; Rawlett had better not try to bully you again.'

This was not much; but Harry knew what he meant, and felt grateful to his brother. Schoolboys seldom speak out their feelings openly, or Horace would have said something like this:

'Harry, I feel that I have done very wrong in not taking your part against Rawlett; but I am sorry for it, and after this will do what I can to protect you.'

Horace didn't say this, but Harry understood him just as well as if he had.

Long after Harry was asleep, Horace lay tumbling about on his bed in no very happy frame of mind. He felt that even two or three weeks at school had changed him for the worse. Especially he reproached himself with his conduct towards Harry. He remembered what affectionate brothers the three Millers were; how they always stood up for one another; how, if one of them were in any way assailed, the other two at once flew to arms for him. And he remembered how his father had bid him take charge of Harry, and protect him against

all oppression. Captain Hazelwood was no friend to passion or quarrelling; but he had taught his sons that in a just cause they should never be afraid. Horace did not want courage, and would not have been afraid to stand up to Rawlett or even a bigger boy; but he could not help feeling that Rawlett had got a strong influence over him, and was leading him wrong. In fact, he knew that by degrees he was becoming a bad boy; and Horace had been brought up to think that to be bad is the same thing as to be unhappy.

He felt very unhappy indeed that night; till, having soothed himself by a quiet cry, he stole out of bed, and kneeling down, prayed that God would pardon his sins and make him a better boy.

And God did hear his prayer and make him better; but not till by sad experience he had learned the bitterness of sin, the unhappiness that is the consequence of doing wrong. This is what we must all learn if we break the laws of Him who was at once spotless and sorrowful, that we through His grace might become holy and happy. At length Horace fell asleep, with the words of the evening hymn on his lips

'Forgive me, Lord, for Thy dear Son,
The ill that I this day have done;
That with the world, myself, and Thee,
I, ere I sleep, at peace may be.

Teach me to live that I may dread
The grave as little as my bed;
Teach me to die, that so I may
Rise glorious on the awful day.'

SUMMER FLOWERS.

"Come forth, come forth, it were a sin
To stay at home to-day;

Stay no more loitering within,
Come to the woods away.

"Its long green grass is filled with flowers,
Its clover's deep, dim red

Is brightened with the morning showers,

That on the winds have fled.'-PROF. WILSON.

COME to the woods away, my dear little friends, for

summer, rosy summer is here; the delicate freshness of the poet-worshipped spring-time has passed away

-stolen into the calm, shady beauty of full summer days, in obedience to the everlasting laws of nature, that bring one season into beauty out of the bosom of another.

Summer, with its umbrageous woods and glittering atmosphere, has come; the dense forest, in its deepened shades of green, is silent under the noonday sun; the choristers of the trees are hushed; only the hum of the never-wearying bee is heard as it roves from flower to flower. The grass is springing noiselessly; there is a soft unfolding of many flowers, for the sweet-scented embroidery of nature is profusely scattered over bank and meadow.

'The green herbs

Stir in the summer's breath; a thousand flowers
By the roadside and the borders of the brook
Nod gaily to each other; glossy leaves

Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet.'

How beautiful are the many splendid moths that wheel around, their lives oft but the length of the summer's day! Hark to the plaintive notes of the cuckoo, that has settled on some distant bough! Cuckoo ! cuckoo whom we so often hear, so often vainly try to see, like Wordsworth, who says:

'To seek thee did I often rove

Through woods, and on the green;
For thou wert still a hope, a love,
Still longed for, never seen.'

Such a host of beauteous blossoms lie at our feet, that it is difficult to know where to pluck first.

'For who would sing the flowers of June,
Though from grey morn to blazing noon,
From blazing noon to dewy eve,
The chaplet of his song to weave,
Would find his summer daylight fail,

And leave half-told the pleasing tale.'

Here are the gladsome blue speedwells, the pretty silver-weed, and creeping cinquefoil, with their bright yellow blossoms gleaming like stars; the delicate lilac

K