marbles it would buy. After the lessons were recited, his teacher said, "Harry, you may collect the pennies today." Harry took his hat, and went around the class. After the other pennies were put in, he dropped in his own, and sat down. His teacher had gone to the library, and the other boys were looking at their little Sabbath papers, and in the course of a very few minutes, Harry and his conscience had quite a conversation together. “I have a great mind to take my bright penny out of my hat again," said Harry. But that will be very wicked," whispered his conscience. "It is mine, any how," said Harry. "No, no," whispered conscience; "it is not yours, Harry; your father gave it to you to put into the missionarybox." "It will buy eight marbles," said Harry. "It will help to buy Bibles and tracts to send to the heathen," answered conscience. "But I do want it very much, and

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no one will know it." "Yes, God will know it," said conscience. But Ilarry would not listen to what his conscience said to him, and just as his teacher was turning to come back to the class, Harry caught up the bright penny and put it in his pocket. Then his conscience would make itself heard it cried out, "You wicked, wicked boy, you are a thief; you are thief, Harry ;" and Harry's cheeks burned like fire.

Poor little Harry went to church, and went home with the rest of the family, but O! how unhappy he was all day that penny in the little side-pocket of his coat seemed to press like lead on his heart; he felt it all the time; he did not think a penny could feel so heavy. When his mother and brother and sisters sung sweet hymns together, he could not join with them, for there was a lump in his throat, which felt as if the penny itself was sticking there. In the evening their mother began to question them, and talk to them as usual; and when she made this remark, that "a single sin would call down the anger of God upon us, and if not repented of, would send us to everlasting punishment," Harry left his seat and came round and stood by his mother, and laid his hand on her shoulder. As she went on talking, she heard a sob, and

looking round, she saw that Harry was crying as if his little heart would break. "What is the matter, Harry? she asked; but Harry only threw himself down on the floor, and laid his head in his mother's lap, and cried more bitterly. 66 Are you sick, my son ?" asked his mother. "No, ma'am." "What is the trouble, then?" But Harry made no answer, except by tears and groans.

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When the time came for them to go to bed, Harry went up with the rest, a wretched, unhappy little boy. His brothers were soon asleep, but Harry tossed about on his pillow, and could not sleep or rest; the lump in his throat seemed as if it would choke him; a great many times he was on the point of calling to his mother, and confessing the whole. After a time, he heard his father and mother locking the doors. "Now," said he, "they are going to bed, and if I do not tell mother now, I shall not sleep any to-night." So he sat up in his bed, and in a husky voice called, "Mother!" What, my son?" she answered pleasantly. Will you come up here one moment, mother?" His mother came immediately; he asked her for a drink of water; she gave it to him, and said, "Is that all you want, Harry?" "No, mamma," said Harry; "I cannot sleep till I tell you what a wicked thing I did to-day :" he then told his mother the story of his temptation, and his sin. She sat down beside him, and talked to him for a long time, and then told him to get up and kneel down by her, and confess his sin to God; "for though God knows it all," said she, "he requires of us to confess our sins to him." Harry knelt by his mother, and in broken sentences, mingled with many tears, confessed his sin. After he had laid down in bed again, he said, “Tell me this, mamma; will you always be afraid to trust me after this?" 66 'No, my boy, I shall not be afraid to trust you, for I think you have had a lesson to-day which you will never forget; but you must not forget to pray daily that. God will keep you from entering into temptation.' Good night, my boy ;" and his mother kissed him, and went into another room to pray for him. In a few minutes she returned, and looked at Harry; he was lying with his

cheek resting on his hand; the tears were yet glistening on his eye-lashes, but the troubled look had passed away from his face, and he was in a sweet and happy sleep.

MEMOIR OF JOSEPH BUTLER.

JOSEPH was born at the Factory Row, Cuerden, in September, 1833. He was of a quiet disposition, spirited and lively without viciousness, not given to gross sins, such as lying and swearing, and was obedient to his parents. He was very early sent to both a week-day and a Sundayschool. With only a short interval, he attended Cuerden Sunday-school about fifteen years, from four years old up to his last illness. It was not until the autumn of 1851, that he became more deeply impressed with Divine things. He attended some temperance and revival meetings which which were held, for one whole week, in Cuerden chapel. Being drawn with many others to attend those meetings, he and several other persons were awakened to feel themselves sinners, were led to Jesus, went to class, and several of those who were then turned from a sinful course still hold on their way. He was sincere and earnest, yet, he did not attain unto a delightful sense of his acceptance with God, until some weeks before his death. Being very fond of singing, he went with a number of others, after

midnight on Christmas-eve, 1851, to sing-in Christmas day, as is the practice in this neighbourhood, often to the injury of health, and sometimes loss of life. It is the opinion of his friends, that that night's singing, brought on the disease (consumption) which ended his earthly career. His illness continued between ten and eleven months; during which period everything that his medical adviser could do, was done for his recovery, but all in vain.

The last few weeks of his suffering, he had a hard struggle, while his constant prayer was, when awake, "Lord, help me! Lord, help me!" Often he prayed for his family and neighbours; and since his death, his mother and sister have begun to serve God. Twice he took hold of his sister's hand, and charged her to be good, and to meet him in heaven. He also prayed much for his dear old grandmother, that God would lead her to Jesus.

On Sabbath morning, the 15th of November, 1852, being much worse, his class leader, Brother Christopher Wainman, was sent for, and Joseph was in a state of great suffering, and anxious to be with Jesus. He was anxious to go to heaven that day, and requested his leader, after he had prayed with him, to desire his brethren at the morning prayer meeting, to pray, if it was the Lord's will, that he would take him home that day. About mid-day he said to his mother, in a low tone, "I shall go to-day." He meant that he should die that day. Between two and three o'clock, Mr. Hoyle, the superintendent, and Mr. Smith, called to pray with him, and found him ready for his change. After this, he grew gradually weaker and spoke little, unless to call for his dear mother, to change his position, and to give him cooling drink. Having been lifted up a little, he said, "Put me back," laid his hands on his breast, and sweetly breathed his last breath. He was aged 19 years. His happy and victorious death was improved by the writer, from Psalm ciii. 15, 16, to a very large and much affected audience.

J. THOMPSON.

THE YOUNG PREACHER.

We were sitting together in the quiet parlour at Oakwood Farm-Mr. and Mrs. Ray, and Elliot and I.

Elliot was reading aloud, but I doubt whether one of his listeners could have told the subject of the book, or the name of its author. Mr. Ray sat, as was his custom, with his hat on, though now it was drawn farther over his eyes than usual. He was leaning back in his chair, with his hands clasped before him, and his two thumbs working restlessly over and over each other—and, could it be possible? yes; there was moisture gathering in his eyes; great, half-formed tears, started beneath the lids, but were quickly forced back again. It could not be that he was affected by what his son was reading, for Elliot was smiling at the sentiment his lips had just expressed. And his mother-she had been knitting, but her work was lying idly in her lap, her elbow rested upon the table close by Elliot's hand, her cheek lay in her uplifted palm, and she was gazing, with moist eyes too, full upon Elliot's face. Perhaps he thought she was listening to him, and drinking in the beautiful sentiments that flowed like music from his lips. But I knew she was not, neither was his father, neither was I.

We were all thinking of to-morrow. This was Saturday night, and to-morrow Elliot was to stand for the first time in the sacred desk to speak of the Saviour, and of salvation to those who had known Elliot from his birth. He was naturally nervous, excitable, and much inclined to indulge in a depressing melancholy. He had been treated by his father with uncommon tenderness, almost idolized by his mother, and had little worldly experience, except what he had gained among his college mates, where his generous nature had always made him a favourite.

He had prepared himself for the ministry by close and careful study; his natural love of reading had made him acquainted with the best speakers of ancient and modern times, and yet his friends predicted his failure. Elliot, too, had his fears. He had been talking with his mother about it, and she had encouraged him with words of hope, while