"What strange fancy is this!" said Mr. Westmore to his wife. "Smitten by a chimney-sweep, is it?"

"Well, dear," was the laughing reply, "I remember well when, as a child, it was the custom (a cruel custom, by the way) for children to climb the chimneys, that a little boy of seven years was sent to sweep those in our house. My little heart was full of pity for the poor child. I followed him into one room, and when I thought no one was looking, I went up to him, seized his little sooty hand, kissed him on the cheek, and then gave him a penny. How delighted the little fellow looked! But it appeared afterwards that there had been an amused observer of the whole scene, and for a long time I had to bear being laughed at, I can assure you. Not that this troubled me; for had I not comforted the ill-used, hard-worked orphan boy, with my childish sympathy in the gift of that penny and kiss?"

"No wonder, then, that Flora has inherited your predilections, my dear," was Mr. Westmore's reply. "But," added he, on leaving the room, “I do hope, if you grant her request, that Miss Prescott will have judgment enough not to take Flora into harm's waybeware of infection, mind!"

Leaving the home of Flora for a while, let us follow the steps of the two sweeps, as they wend their way back to their sorry breakfast.

What was it which, on this cold morning (when all in the outer world was dark and drear), made both boys brighten, and summoned so suddenly to their face a cheerful smile? It was their mother. There she sat, clean in all her poverty, before a table spread to the best of her ability, with bread, herrings, and tea made from the leaves given her by some servant, at a house where she charred. Yes, there she sat, the picture of cleanliness, her eyes filled with patient thankfulness for the meal— eyes that kindled afresh with love, as they gazed on her beloved boys. Having first washed their hands from the soot, Ned and Charlie sat down to their frugal fare— fare carrying, however, more blessing to them than the luxurious food spread in the homes of many of the great and rich, because blessed by the grace repeated from thankful, humble, and believing hearts.

"Mother dear," said Charlie, after having told her how they were kept waiting at the big house, with the scolding they both got from the servant-" mother dear, why is all so unjust, dark, and cruel-why must we suffer day after day, while others have more than they want?"

"O Charlie dear, don't talk so! Hasn't God given us enough as yet?"

"Yes, mother; but if you had seen the big house we went to this morning. They have all that they can want there; and yet it was there the servant was so

"Yes, Charlie; hard enough, most times; but I shouldn't care half as much if you would only get rid of your cough, it does remind me so of poor fatherthat's harder than all to me!" And, as he spoke, Ned wrapped round his brother his own larger though wellworn overcoat.

Another fit of coughing prevented Charlie from speaking; then, as it ceased, he threw his arm round his brother, and said: ""Tis the soot, I believe, does it; it is always worse when I come out of a morning to sweep a chimney."

"Yes," replied Ned, "I daresay; but the cold has most to do with it, I think. Things do seem hard.” And the young man drew a long sigh, and walked on in silence.

In a few moments they reached the alley in which they lived with their widowed mother. Close as this alley was, her room was beautifully clean and airy, in spite of poverty. The room was small, upon the groundfloor, with a window scarcely large enough to admit any light, while it admitted wind and rain; and together with the door, half off its hinges, created a constant draught. Still, in spite of all, this room was "home" to Ned and Charlie, and they entered it with pleasure on this morning. A few embers only smouldered in the little grate. In a corner of the room was the bed of Widow Astlake, hidden by a curtain, which divided the room into two parts-the second half being the sleeping

She was sharp because we woke her too soon; and yet we went at the right time, as she said. Ned took all so quiet; he did. I'm right proud of him, that I am; for I should have said some angry words, only his way stopped me."

"I'm glad it did, Charlie; we only lose by being made angry, and displease God."

"But, mother dear, you call him a prayer-hearing God, and tell me often that he says, 'Call upon Me in the time of trouble, and I will deliver you.' Well, we have gone on asking and calling for help every day since poor father died, yet we are no better off—if anything, we are worse. Now, if he hears prayer, why is it so ?"

"Because he thinks best, Charlie. Oh, do not talk of the great God in such a tone as that, my child. You are more tired than usual, and that nasty cough pains you surely, or you would think differently. God is a hearer and an answerer of prayer; even now he is listening to us, and will answer, though the answer may not come in our way. Remember, we must not look upon prayer as a power by which we may bend God to our will, or as an instrument by which we may drive him, as it were, to do our bidding, or to give us our desire and want. No; prayer is not these, but the blessed way to God, opened by the blood of Jesus; by which way man may go, draw nigh to, and speak with his Maker, tell him his need-leaving him who is all wisdom, love, power, to give or refuse the request, just as he thinks best. Depend upon it, Charlie, you and I

have some lesson to learn yet, which God will teach us by delay, perhaps by denial. Let us, however, still 'call,' still trust. But now it is time for Ned to go to work; we must stop talking, therefore. I wish you, Charlie, to remain at home to-day to help me. With that cough you must not go out again into the cold. Indeed, I don't think you must help with the chimneys again till it be gone."

Then Widow Astlake said grace, and began to move the remnants of the meal. Ned took his cap and went out, while Charlie only too willingly obeyed his mother, and sat down to think by the fireside.

CHAPTER II.

CHARLIE'S thoughts were soon scattered, however, by the sight of his mother at work. He could not rest thus. So he rose and began to help her in tidying the room; then he filled the empty wood-basket, and assisted in preparing their scanty dinner. This done, his mother told him to rest well while she went to do a "hand'sturn," as she termed it, for a neighbour. Charlie could not read, though nearly twelve years of age: this was a sore trial to himself. Indeed, it was his one burden, all the more heavy because he bore it in silence, well knowing that his mother could not afford to send him to school. Neither could she nor Ned teach him, as their day's labour was such that at the close they were too tired for any mental effort of the kind. Before his cough had become so bad, he had been in the habit of attending a Sunday school. There, however, the boys were not taught to read, so that all he had learned was in committing to memory texts of Scripture, hymns, and the remarks of his teacher. Valuable as this knowledge was, it was but head-knowledge after all. As yet the Spirit of God had not brought Charlie to the knowledge of Jesus as his own Saviour-his own Friend. As yet his young heart was not given to Him-but to Self. Thus the trial of not being able to read for himself, with all his other burdens, seemed to him greater than he could bear. Life-short as his had been-was bitter to him, and he had early learned to doubt his mother's God. Pondering now as he sat by the fire over the words spoken by his mother at the breakfast-table, try- | ing to understand them-to make them square with his own ideas of things-the morning passed rapidly away. A little before noon, he was startled by a knock at the door, and still more startled when, in answer to his "Come in," a lady with a little girl about his own age entered. Quickly rising, Charlie tried to make a bow, and then shyly offered them a chair.

things. She heard you cough so badly this morning, that she could not rest until she had brought some things to ease it, and cure it, if possible."

Opening his eyes in wonder, Charlie said: "I never saw her, ma'am; how could she know anything about it ?"

"When you came to our house this morning, I heard you," said Flora, blushing. "I am afraid Mary did not let you in quickly," she continued.

"No, miss; and she was right cross 'cause we came so soon; but it was the time she bid us come," was Charlie's truthful answer.

"I am sorry for that," said Miss Prescott; "but we are all apt to lose our temper sometimes, and I dare say Mary would feel sorry now for having spoken so sharply. Come, Flora, open the basket." The ready fingers soon obeyed, and drew forth some cold chicken, rolls, jelly, with a pot of black-currant jam. "These are all for you, Charlie. I hope you will enjoy them. And this is a packet of lozenges for use when your cough troubles you."

Astonishment made the poor boy silent for a few moments, then he tried to find words with which to thank his young friend, but could not get beyond, "Oh, thank you kindly, miss; won't mother be right glad—” "Can you read?" asked Miss Prescott.

"No, ma'am," was the sorrowful reply, while poor Charlie coloured with shame. "How is that?"

"Mother can't afford to send me to school, and my cough's been so bad this winter I couldn't go even to Sunday school."

"Would you like to learn at home?"

"Deed and I should, ma'am."

"Well, then, perhaps some way will open before you, by which your desire to read may yet be gratified. Now we must go. Good-bye, and tell your mother that Mrs. Westmore sent these gifts, and will try to come herself shortly."

After his visitors had departed, Charlie looked at his gifts, covered them with a cloth, and longed for his mother's return. Very soon the widow made her appearance at the door.

"O mother, guess what's happened while you have been away?”

"I'm sure I can't guess, my boy; something good, I should say, from your look."

"Well, look here, mother; guess what's under that cloth ?"

"I can't, dear; has any one been here?"

"Seems like it, mother; don't it? Look!" and uncovering the goods, Charlie displayed them to his mother's

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then you are her son, I suppose?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, then, this little girl has brought you some

"O Charlie, whoever gave you these?"

"A little lady who heard me cough this morning while standing at the big house." As he said these words, a sudden thought struck the boy. "Mother, and I thought it hard to be kept waiting, yet if I hadn't been,

the little lady wouldn't have heard me cough, and I shouldn't have had these nice things, so it was good after all. O mother-"

"Ah, my boy, it was best. You see it now. May you learn to believe in future that all is best, because God orders all, without waiting to see it so; but now our first duty is to thank God for these good things, for they are his." And kneeling down, the poor widow poured out her heart in simple words of thanks before the Lord, and prayed that she and her children might learn to trust him more firmly in future.

Rising from their knees, Charlie turned to his mother and said, "I think God hears your prayers now."

What a happy meal was that! Nor was Ned forgotten, though absent. A good piece of chicken and bread was put by for him in the cupboard, by the loving hands of his mother, for his evening meal.

"Did my pet find her sweep?" was the question of Mr. Westmore that evening when sitting by the fire after tea, with Flora on a stool at his feet.

"Oh yes, papa; and he is such a nice clean boy-his face is not at all black at home."

"Very well, dear; and how did he receive you ?" "He was shy, but nice, and thanked me, looking so pleased at the good things sent by mamma. His cough is dreadfully bad, though."

"Poor boy! What is his age?"

"I think he is as old as I; but we did not ask. We found him all alone, sitting by the fire in a very small room, with very little in it. I am sure they must be very, very poor."

"Does he go to school?"

"No, papa; and that is what I want to talk to you about. Do you know that I have a capital plan in my head?"

"Do I know, Flora? How can I till you tell me?" said Mr. Westmore, smiling at his little daughter's eager

ness.

"Now, papa, be serious, please, and listen to me, for it is quite serious, I can tell you."

"Well, then, little woman, go on, and let me hear all that you have to say, for I am all attention."

"That is a good papa! Well, I am going to ask Uncle Sanar to help him, and to let him go to school without paying, because he is too poor to pay."

"But, Flora, kind as Uncle Sanar is, I do not think that it would be right to ask all that of him. Suppose, instead," added Mr. Westmore, seeing Flora's look of

lost sight of Widow Astlake for so long a time." "May I to Uncle Sanar to-morrow?" "Yes, after lessons."

go

"Thank you, mamma. I know he will help, because he is so kind; and I hope he will teach him too, because he is so clever, and can make children understand so easily. How simple all he says on Sunday is! Why, I can make out all his meaning when he preaches, so perhaps he will teach Charlie to love the Lord Jesus. ◊ mamma, think of that!"

"Let us hope so, dear. But what makes you think that uncle can do this, and why do you wish it so much?"

"Because uncle has taught me to love Him," said Flora, bending low, and speaking softly.

Good-night, darling; now go," said Mrs. Westmore, kissing her, while her own eyes filled with tears. She had no answer to make to this remark of her child, so took refuge in dismissing her to bed; but as the door closed upon Flora, the heart's cry of her mother was this: "Oh, that I too knew, and loved, that name! Oh, would that I loved my child's Saviour!" But she did not ask the Giver of all good gifts to teach her to know and love Jesus, so, for the present, she went on her way wishing, but only wishing, to be better: sick at heart whenever she thought of the difference between herself and her child.

mercantile principles, so that in all cases the same amount of work may be recompensed with the same amount of wages.

PILGRIMAGES A PAGAN GROWTH.

Pilgrimages grew up on the soil of paganism. This is their paternity, beyond all doubt. Not a trace of such a thing do we meet with in the Bible. The graves of the two great leaders of the Israelites the men who brought them from the slavery of Egypt to the land of liberty-were unknown, and therefore, it may be said, pilgrimages to their tombs were out of the question. But that difficulty might have been got over. A tithe of the marvellous faculty for discovery which the Romanists have since displayed might have found the veritable tomb of Aaron on Mount Hor, and the exact resting-place of Moses in the valley of Moab, "over against Beth-peor." But never was an effort made, so far as we learn, to discover either grave. But if these two sepulchres were unknown, not so the burial-place of the great fathers of the Hebrew people. The dust of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, it was well known, rested in the cave of Machpelah, in the environs of Hebron. That spot could not be other than one of intensest and tenderest interest to the Israelites; and yet, throughout the whole of their history as a people, we read not of so much as one solitary Jew ever going thither on pilgrimage. There stood a pillar above the grave of Rachel; and yet never was lamp kindled or votive offering hung up at the tomb of the mother of Israel. The burial-place of Joseph, in the valley of Shechem, was also a well-known but a quite unvisited locality, at least for any religious purpose. Peter, in his sermon on the day of Pentecost, reminded the Jews that they had David's sepulchre among them to that very day. There it had been, in their very city, all throughout the ages since the day the warriorking slept with his fathers; yet no one appears to have dreamed of going thither to pray or to fast before it no one thought of wooing victory by hanging up his sword at the tomb of the slumbering hero before going forth to battle. David was a saint not less eminent than any in the popish calendar; yet it was not thought that his bones communicated any holiness to the soil in which

they rested, or that they imparted to supplications offered at his grave the power of winging their way with speedier flight into the skies, and of receiving more gracious audience in the court of the great King.

Nay more a greater grave than any of these -the greatest earth ever contained—was well known in apostolic times. The exact spot "where the Lord lay" was indubitably known; yet never do we find apostle or evangelist enjoining on convert, whether Jew or Gentile, a pilgrimage thither. When the jailer at Philippi cried out, in almost despair, "What shall I do to be saved?" Paul did not say, as a father-confessor nowadays would certainly have said, “You must make a pilgrimage to the grave of Christ, and there recite so many prayers, and make the customary offerings to the priests, and you will obtain forgiveness." We read of but one pilgrimage ever made in apostolic times to the grave of Christ,-even that of the two Marys on the morning of the first day; but not finding in it Him whom they sought, they departed, and came thither again no more.

From the soil of paganism-and especially of Greek paganism—comes, then, this importation. The pantheistic principle is the breath in its nostrils. Take that away, and it returns to its dust the dust out of which it was taken. Let us look a moment into this matter. What special good does the devotee promise to himself by visiting such and such a shrine-Paray-la-Monial, let us say? Why, he expects that there will be infused into his person and into his devotional acts a certain quality, which will make him a holier man, and his prayers more acceptable, and whereby he will become worthy of the indulgence with which the Church rewards his devotion. But whence arises the virtue that is thus infused into him, and that renders him so full of merit and holiness that it would be unjust to retain so good a man so long in the midst of purgatorial fires as otherwise might have been equitable and even necessary? Whence, we ask, arises this marvellous quality? It comes from the rotting bones he approaches, from the priests and the rites he comes in contact with; nay, he imbibes it from the air he breathes and from the ground he treads upon.

But, further, whence did this