my forte is not giving out hymns and pulling up unlucky little boys who come in late: I must say I have an unconquerable aversion to it."

"Well! would you read the Lessons for me-that I should be grateful to you for doing-really grateful."

"Of two evils, choose the least," said Henry with a laugh, as he opened his book, "so I'll read the Lessons, though, upon my word, a fellow looks particularly absurd stuck up in the reading desk. One's own family are hoping no mistakes will be made, while all the old Goodys in the church whisper, 'There's our young squire, deary me! how nataral he looks, don't he?' But what must be, must be."

An hour passed very pleasantly. Alice scratched away with her pen, looking up every five minutes to see if Mr. Harvey were approving her activity: he however was too busy to notice her, except by an occasional nod or a smile. It was a peculiarity of his to be always thoroughly interested in, or at any rate thoroughly alive to his occupation at the time, whether it was gardening, walking, talking about parish matters, feeding Alice's canaries, or writing his sermons. It was a trait in his character-a fortunate trait, for which there was however no accounting, and which was not of course from any effort of his own. Alice wished she had it too, but it was of no use wishing, and to be contented with what we had by nature was highly praiseworthy; only she did wish that nature had given her a little more concentration, or whatever it was." There she exclaimed at last, throwing down her pen.

"I've

done it ; and now let's have some music, or play at some game. -Surely I've not to do any more ?" she added, in an alarmed tone of voice as Mr. Harvey passed her the book again.

"To be sure! I thought you were going to begin Life in Earnest, to-night."

"But I have been in earnest such a long time! Will you sing one duet with me, to give the work a relish, and don't take out your watch, please, papa."

After the duet with Mr. Harvey, came two songs of her own, and then another duet, and then some waltzes, and then some more songs, and then Mr. Harvey started up "I must go : my time's up. Good bye."

And now that he was gone Alice, felt sorry there was no one to help her with those accounts. She groaned aloud, pushed her favorite cat from her accustomed place on the rug, and presently took up her candle to go to bed. "Mamma! I'm so

tired I can't do any more."

"My dear, you only undertook the work at Mr. Harvey's request—not mine; but don't forget your promise to have it ready by Tuesday."

Henry sat up till one o'clock studying, taxing his brain to the utmost. He was not strong, and the next morning awoke with a terrible headache. This kept him in bed till within half-anhour of church time, and then he made a tremendous scramble and got to church just in time to follow Mr. Harvey to the reading-desk. As to where the Lessons for the day were, he had not the remotest idea, and to whisper to the rector at such a time would have been highly indecorous; he stood out the psalms in the greatest perplexity; and when it came to his part of the duty, in desperation he opened at the place where a mark was. It was the wrong chapter, but Mr. Harvey could give him no hint. Before the second Lesson, however, he turned to the right place in the Testament, and Henry got on better.

The afternoon service fared no better; for Henry thought it right to take a long walk between the services on Sunday, as he had no exercise during the week. What his meditations during the walk were, I don't pretend to say, but certainly the afternoon Lessons formed no part of them, and Mr. Harvey did not ask his assistance again.

Alice had so many imaginary duties and occupations on Monday and Tuesday, that she completely forgot the account book, and Mr. Harvey. It was therefore with an unconscious smile that she met him, as he walked down to her rabbit-house on Tuesday evening. "Well Alice! where is the book? The carrier is at my house now, and I'm only waiting for yours, to send them all off to Mr. Merival's. The annual meeting is to-morrow: you promised it this morning you know.”

"Oh! Mr. Harvey!"

Say no more;" he quickly exclaimed "it's not done, I can see by your face; but come with me, or tell me where it is, and I'll send it unfinished."

Alice burst into tears. "It's always the same: Henry is right after all: he says I have no objects in life. I'm sure if I'd gone to school or-or anything to stimulate me, I should."

"Never mind, my dear, what you would have been; my account book is the sufferer," said Mr. Harvey. "Will you give me the book directly?" he added, as she still stood weeping.

While Alice flew to the house to fetch the book, Mr. Harvey proceeded to feed the rabbits, and Henry watched his endeavors to catch one that had strayed among the shrubs, (if such vague, abstracted looking up from his book could be called watching.) Alice could not but observe the kindness of this

when she returned.

"How kind of you to catch my rabbit, Mr. Harvey. I don't deserve it."

"No, but that was better than standing still doing nothing." "I hope no harm will be done to the society?" Alice ventured to say timidly."

"I hope not;" and he left without another word.

"He's evidently angry," said Alice, as she watched Mr. Harvey out of sight."

"My dear Alice," said Henry, "don't you see the folly of your present conduct; you're absolutely crying."

"You ought to be sorry if you'd any right feeling-think of the society.

"Are you thinking of the society?"

Alice confessed after a pause that she was only sorry because Mr. Harvey was annoyed.

It was a whole week before the rector called again, and when he did so, it was with a grave face.

"What about the cash book?" whispered Alice, the first opportunity, "was any harm done ?"

"They have turned off the secretary, or rather they have intimated that accounts so badly kept must be given into other hands, so Mr. Brown will be deeply hurt; now you know, Alice, Mr. Brown was the person originally at fault about the society; he took it without any feeling of its importance, and threw the accounts into my hands because he wanted to take a tour. Though I said I would do what I could, I did not promise to settle them, but when you promised so much I did

rely upon your keeping your word, and therefore you have acted just as Mr. Brown did."

"I am very, very, sorry," said Alice. you went, I bought such a lovely duet.

"The very day after Will you try it with me, if you have time? And,” she added, with anxious gravity, deprecating the smile that stole over his face, “I really did try. I was determined I would be in earnest, and concentrate everything, as you said we ought, so I sang it ten times between dinner and tea, and then papa said he could'nt bear it any longer, and he wished I would be more judicious and choose a little variety. To-day I've been weeding in the garden for four hours, and I'm so tired I can hardly stand."

Five years have passed away. Henry has taken high honors, and is a barrister. He finds to his disappointment that he has gained his object and lost his motive for exertion at the same time. His face wears no longer its old expression of inward happiness and expectation. He has concentrated all his best energies for years upon one fancied good, and now he looks round listlessly as if his work were done. Early youth, and fresh romantic visions of future usefulness have passed together from his thoughts. His health is impaired from unremitting study. It is true he has gained a name, but that is all; he has not gained the love of his fellows, and the approval of a good conscience. He had, in those years of mental labor, learnt so easily to do without the esteem of those around him—learnt so easily to care nothing for the claims of others upon him—that they have at last in their turns, gone to others for sympathy and kindness, and have learnt to look upon him as something to be admired at a distance, and loved no longer.

Alice is the wife of Mr. Harvey; he tries to teach her by his example, the difference between vague occasional efforts at usefulness, and unassuming continued earnestness in the path of duty. I know not whether she has profitted as she might have done whether she does at last live for something beyond to-day; but I do know that her step is less elastic, and her face is less cheerful when she remembers the dreaming, purposeless tenor of her early days, and reflects that she is only now beginning to feel and to know what is "Life in Earnest."

BERESFORD.

THE EVIL SPIRITS OF THE WORLD. *

I. Let me mention two or three of the most potent and prominent of the evil spirits that possess society. There is Selfism. This is a corruption of self-love — a principle prompting men to act ever from personal consideration—to make self the centre and circumference of all plans and operations. A selfish man is one who holds all interests cheap in comparison with his own ; who receives readily but gives reluctantly, unless it be with the hope of the donation flowing back with interest to his own coffers. He views all questions in their aspect upon himself. "Loss and gain" are the fundamentals of his moral system. He weighs everlasting principles in the balance of lucre, and all is visionary and Utopian-chaff that tells not in the scales. The labourer may toil and sweat-the shopman wear away his health—the mariner hazard his existence-the warrior dye continents in blood, and tread empires in the dust;-compunction he has none, if results are favorable to his interests. Such is selfishness; and is it not the presiding genius of the worldthe very mainspring of society-producing and perpetuating the motion of almost every wheel?

II. There, again, is Sensualism. The apostle divides mankind into two classes-the "carnal" and the "spiritual." The great distinction between them in their relation to the body is this: the spiritual attends to fleshly appetites as the necessities of his nature, the carnal as the sources of his pleasure. If seeking pleasure from the senses is carnality, how fearfully prevalent is it! “Fleshly lusts,” not spiritual impulses, move, mould, and master the bulk of the race. Esau's appetite governed his conscience- impelled him to barter away his birthright for a mess of pottage, and reduced him to beggary and tears. In his foolish conduct you have a picture of the world; in his wretched destiny you may read its doom. Amongst savage hordes, and in rural districts where education has not gone to

* We copy this passage from a masterly address "On the Wants of the World and the weakness of the Church," printed in the Homilist-a periodical just issued by Ward and Co. The whole discourse, which forms one of a series on the current topics of the day, demands the thoughtful perusal of all. How well it deserves such perusal we need scarcely say, after reminding our readers that it is from the powerful pen of the Rev. David Thomas, of Stockwell.