who thronged around her, and proclaimed her queen in the realms of beauty and of mind, there was not one true heart that answered to her own, not one on whose words she could trust, not one on whose sympathy she could rely, and often when others deemed her supremely happy, she would say bitterly, "I alone am miserable. I have achieved the greatness I desired, I have won for myself a meed of praise, I have made my name known among men; yet I have none to love me, and none that I may love. Unloving and unloved I shall live and die; of what worth is my life? I am weary of it."

Time passed on, and the maiden's beautiful countenance bore trace of inward sorrow. The thrilling words of eloquence flowed no longer from her pen, her soul gave forth no harmony, and her paintings borrowed their sombre hue from the gloom of her own soul; and the world forsook one who cared no longer for its pomps and vain pleasures, but who wrote bitter things against it; and turned to some new idol, set up by fashion and caprice.

The child of genius and of ambition grew more and more unhappy, and she said, "I will seek no more for fleeting fame or worthless praise; but I will return to my early home, and strive, with the help of the Almighty and the All-pitying, to fulfil my appointed duties. I will seek no more the creature's admiration; but strive ever and earnestly for the approbation of the Creator.

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The moon cast its pale radiance o'er the bed of sickness, where lay a patient sufferer. The seal of death was on her brow, and the heavy waves of long damp hair fell round her clammy temples; but a sweet calm smile of happiness played round her mouth, and lit up her eyes. Friends, true and loving, gathered round her couch to hear the last words that fell from her lips. She told them of the vanity of life:"When

I was young," she said, "I possessed a mother's love; but I despised it, and sought the world's esteem, which, when gained, I found to be but hollow and false. Then, with a sinking heart, I left the path I had chosen for myself, and the broken cisterns which could hold no water, wherewith to slake my thirst for love and truth, and returned to the true and only cistern and fount of real and lasting happiness; and He, my Heavenly Father, in his mercy, received again to his fold his erring sheep. Ease came to my soul, and though the brightness of life was shadowed for me, yet the true happiness was mine of a heart reconciled to its God, and at peace with itself. The peace of God, which He alone can give, passeth all understanding. Glory to Him that hath redeemed, and to Him that hath sanctified us." She closed her eyes and fell asleep. It was the sleep of death.

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In a quiet corner of the village churchyard, lie the earthly remains of Lilia. The lark sings his matins above her grave, and the early violet and the pale primrose ever bloom there; and the sweet delicate rose scatters its blushing petals to the summer air, fit emblem of her who sleeps beneath the velvet sod. The wise and the great thought not of her; but the poor and the infirm wept her loss; and though none said, "A star hath set this night," yet many murmured sadly, "A holy spirit hath gone hence to its heavenly home, leaving us to mourn its absence." A slab of unstained white marble marks the head of her last resting-place, and on it is graven what she had herself designed for her gentle mother—a broken lily and a sheaf of corn; and beneath, the words: "Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord, for they rest from their labours, and their works do follow them.'

CARLA MEREX.

THE TWO SPRINGS.

THERE was once a man who had two springs of water near his dwelling. And the furthest off was always full, but the near one sometimes ran dry. He could always fetch as much as he wanted from the further one, and the water was by far the sweetest; moreover, he could, if he chose, draw out the water of the upper spring in such abundance, that the dryness of the lower one should not be noticed.

The lower spring was very pretty, only the sunbeams sometimes made it too warm; and sometimes an evildisposed person would step in and muddy it; or a cloudy sky made it look very dark. Also, the flowers that grew by its side could not bear the frost; and if one drank too much of the water, it was apt to make him sick.

But the other spring. There was "a great Rock;" and from this, the cold flowing waters came in a bright stream that you could rather hear than see; yet was the cup always filled to the very brim, if it was held there in patient trust. And no one ever knew that spring to fail; yea, in the great droughts it was fullest ; and the water was life-giving.

But this man often preferred the lower spring, and would neglect the other when this was full; and if forced to seek the Rock, he was often weary of waiting for his cup to fill, and so drew it away with but a few drops. And he never learned to love the upper spring as he ought; until one year, when the very grass by the lower spring was parched, and he fled for his life to the other. And then it happened, that when the water at last began slowly to come into the lower spring, though it was very lovely, and sweet, and pleasant, it never could be loved best again.

Dear reader, when we want anything this world can give, we must fetch the more from heaven.

THE BLACKSMITH'S REVENGE;

OR, HOW TO GET RID OF A DISAGREEABLE NEIGHBOUR.
A Narrative of Facts.

C6
BY THE AUTHORESS OF 'HOME LIFE," ETC.

MARK BUTLER and Roger Saunders were neighbours, that is, so far as the word implies nearness of residence. Although they lived within two or three doors of each other, they were very unneighbourly in every other sense. Mark Butler was offended with Roger Saunders, and would not speak to him when they happened to meet in the street; and Roger Saunders could not bear Mark Butler, and did all in his power to vex and annoy him.

Roger was a blacksmith, and Mark was a carpenter; and people who knew them well used to say that Roger was as hot as his own fire, and that Mark was as tough and unimpressible as a log of his own wood; and their comparisons were nearer the truth than such comparisons generally are. The worst of the matter was, that both Roger and Mark professed to be Christian men, and their conduct therefore was the more blameable. It furnished people with an occasion for casting ridicule and contempt upon religion; and the inconsistencies of Christians, dear young readers, have perhaps done more to hinder the progress of Christianity than the attacks of its avowed

enemies.

For several months this unhappy discord had existed between Mark and Roger, and there was no sign of any reconciliation. Both Roger's wife-a neat, lively, bustling little woman, with rosy cheeks and black eyes that sparkled with good humour-and Mark's wife-a delicate sickly creature, who was proverbial for her love of peace and quietness-would gladly have brought about a better state of things; but their influence was of no avail in this matter, for Roger and Mark seemed determined to keep their kindly feeling towards each other as far asunder as the poles.

No one observed the growing alienation of the two neighbours with more concern and regret than Miles Jackson, an old farmer, and one of the oldest inhabitants of the place. He had not passed through life-comparatively uneventful as it had been to him-without having seen much, and heard more of the baneful effects of strife and quarrelling; and he thought it was a pity that Mark and Roger should bear such ill-will towards each other; because no one could tell to what sad results it might eventually lead. He determined to try whether he could

not effect some change; he knew that he had not very promising material to work upon in either case, but he felt that it was his duty to make the attempt, and hope for the best. Miles Jackson was a plain old-fashioned man, possessing great benevolence of disposition, and a touch of humour and originality which made him generally welcome wherever he went, and which gave him liberty to say anything he pleased without causing offence. Truths, unwelcome truths, which would have been indignantly repelled, if uttered by another man, were patiently borne from him; and he did much good in this way.

Miles Jackson resolved to make his first essay upon Roger Saunders, for he considered that his hot and hasty temperament rendered him more susceptible than Mark Butler. Mark was a

man of more intelligence and real principle than his neighbour, and if really convinced of his error, might be trusted for the future in preference to Roger; but oh! the difficulty of that "if!" Miles Jackson felt it so strongly that when he had put on his hat, he turned his head at once in the direction of Roger's forge. There was a small bill owing to Roger which had remained unpaid for more than a week, through the illness of the man who usually settled his accounts; and Miles put that little bill and the money for it into his pocket, that it might make him an errand to the blacksmith's.

After the usual salutations were over, and the little account duly settled, Miles was rather at a loss how he should introduce the real object of his visit; but his perplexity was suddenly relieved by Roger's pouring forth his long catalogue of complaints against Mark Butler; and, like most other complaints, he made out a good case for himself, and represented himself as a man that was exceedingly injured and ill-used.

It would not have been civil for Miles Jackson to contradict any of the assertions which Roger made, especially when it was his sympathy and not his opinion or advice that was asked for; so he said not a word about the probability of there being as much blame due to Roger Saunders as to Mark Butler, although it was by no means a doubtful matter in his own mind; but he quietly assented to all that was said about the unpleasantness of having such a person as Mark for a neighbour, and only expressed his surprise that his worthy friend Roger had not endeavoured to get rid of the unpleasantness long before that time.

"Get rid of it! Mr. Jackson, how in the world can I do that? Mark has as much right to live here if he pleases as I have; but I am determined to put a stop to his insolent behaviour and remarks if I possibly can."

"Would it not be the wiser way, Roger, to pass over his