the same field, to rescue this species of literature from the degrading office of ministering to vanity or vice, and employ it as one of the "instruments of righteousness." This year our younger readers will not be neglected. The Editor is ambitious of enrolling himself as an almost constant contributor to their department. Scarcely anything in his public life during the past year has proved more grateful to his heart, than the intimation, received from more than one family, that the journal is relished, and its arrival watched for, by the younger members of the circle. There is much in the aspect of public affairs to encourage a Christian patriot. At home, the education of the people is making steady progress. In our relations with other countries, not only has peace been in point of fact maintained, but a new method of settling international disputes has been successfully inaugurated, which bids fair to become a precedent for other countries, and an immeasurable blessing to posterity. The successive efforts of the Papacy to regain its influence in Europe have resulted in failure; and at this day a liberty of conscience and of worship is enjoyed throughout the Continent such as we could not have dreamed of a quarter of a century ago. It is true that the moral and religious condition of large classes in our own and other countries is fitted to afford much anxiety to all thoughtful disciples of Christ. People who are bent on the enjoyment of indolent case have but a poor prospect. They are in the wrong place. This is not a good world for resting in; but it is a good world for working in; and if we are "fellow-workers with God," our labour will not be lost. W. A. "Anno Domini!" O the boon, That we, when stricken sore, “Anno Domini !" Strong to save, "Anno Domini !" words we use So oft as words of course; "Anno Domini !" then we cry, As 'twere a trumpet call; "Anno Domini !" Be it thus, To bless both heart and ear; The writer of these verses is indebted for the general idea contained in them to a story by Riehl. Light out of Darkness. A STORY OF THE FRANCO-GERMAN WAR. BY ANNIE LUCAS. A CHAPTER I. MY DEAR OLD HOME. YEAR!—one year only one year since the bright May morning that ushered in my eighteenth birth-day, in my old home in the little French village among the Vosges mountains. Only one year! Yet then life lay before me like an open book, with but the preface written, and its blank unturned pages bright with the sunny dreams of youth; now those leaves are filled, and the book itself seems closed, clasped, and laid on a shelf, with only one line untraced-one blank space left-just room for a name, a date, an age. When will that record be made? Ah, me! that I am only nineteen to day! O years! years! through how many must I tread life's pathway-that last year seemed so smooth, so bright, so rainbowspanned-with bleeding feet, in darkness and alone? In darkness and alone? Ah! faithless heart, not so! Not in darkness, for Christ is my Light; not alone, for he is with me always. He has promised it. He is the Truth, and he has said, "I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee." "Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid." "I will not leave you 'orphans ;' I will come to you." And I know he will. I know that having loved me, and made me his own, he will love me "unto the end,"-the end that now appears so far off, so long to wait for. I know he will comfort, guide, and strengthen me through the "little while" of time, and bring me safely at last to "the haven where I would be," to the "fulness of joy and pleasures for evermore" in the Father's house above. And he will not chide the sorrow, or check the tears that are poured forth on his breast. He too has wept. What then? Shall I faint because the light of earthly joy and hope is quenched for me for ever-because the strong presence of human love is gone from my side to return no more? What if father, country, home-all my earthly treasures have been swept utterly away by the hurricane of war? I have a Father in heaven, a better country, a home above," a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens ;" and my chief treasures are not lost, only garnered up into safer keeping than mine. And if my life's story is ended, my life's work is not. Am I the only one to whom this terrible year has brought desolation and anguish? Alas! how many thousands of records besides mine have been traced in characters of blood and fire and tears, records beginning and ending alike in darkness! while to me, light, the true light, has come out of darkness. Shall I not rather strive to comfort and help those my fellow-sufferers, going out "holding forth the Word of life," the true and only source of light and peace? Yes; I must seek now to fight my battles, to gain my victories, to conquer this gloom and depression and sickness at heart, these aching yearnings after the "might have been," by laying them all at His feet, who is touched, not only with our sorrows, but with our infirmities, and by going forth in his strength, leaning hard on him. And He who wept at the grave or Lazarus is caring even now, I feel, for his poor sorrowing child, whose deep heart-wounds he alone can probe. Sorely has that poor heart been tried to-day, roughly have those bleeding wounds been torn open, till nature's agony had well-nigh drowned the faint, sweet whispers of faith, and quenched the soft light of heavenly hope. Thank God! almost, not quite. The grace to help ever comes in the time of sorest need, and the voice that spoke to the terrified disciples on the midnight sex now, even now, whispering in my ears the same tender words of cheer: "It is I; be not afraid." And I am not afraid. sounding sweetly through storm and surge, seems and lips of air pressing light kisses on my brow. I could not bear it, and turning from the window | I closed the curtains, and hiding my face in my hands, wept bitter, burning tears, that brought no healing, and listened to the passionate cry in my heart, that One voice alone could silence. That thought which came to me just now-of my life's finished story, so quickly told, lying shut up in a clasped book-has brought with it the wish to open once more those closed pages, and retrace thoughtfully and connectedly "the way the Lord hath led me." I will do so. I think it will help and comfort me; and perhaps, some time, some other stricken spirit, ready to sink like mine, and forget all but its pain, may read it, and be helped and comforted too. How many such there must be to-day in Munich! For to-day the grand old city was all astir, to welcome its returning warriors, coming crowned, indeed, with the laurels of victory, but of victory how dearly bought the thinned ranks and worn frames of the conquerors too sadly showed. None seemed to think of that; sights and sounds and symbols of triumph were everywhere, but I am sure they were few who did not bear aching hearts amidst it all. I was roused from sleep this morning by the loud roar of cannon! I started up in terror. Those to whom that sound has become familiar in its dread reality-who have heard those iron lips speak their ghastly language of blood and agony and death-can scarcely learn to associate it with rejoicing, still less with peace. I went to the window, and the sight of the roofs and domes and spires of the city, bathed in the golden glow of the morning sunshine, the multitude of flags floating proudly and gaily against the clear blue of the sky, the sounds of foreign words in strange voices from the workmen engaged in giving the finishing touches to the large arch that spans the street just under my window, and the distant tones of a band playing the now far-famed "Wacht am Rhein," soon brought to my mind where I was, and what was to be that day. And then something I know not what, for it came not as of old, laden with sweet scent of flowers, and glad sounds of bird and bee-something in the light touch of the breeze on my face opened the floodgates of memory, and brought back the past-oh, so vividly! It almost seemed as if spirit fingers were smoothing back my hair, But I did not seek that voice. I sat long in the darkened room, holding communion only with my grief; and when at last I went forth, I carried with me the deadly hidden pain, gnawing within, for I sought once more to bear my sorrow alone, and it crushed me to the very dust. It is over at last-the hollow pomp of triumph -the streets are empty, windows and balconies are vacant, and those who lately occupied them are gone; some to rejoice in the presence of their loved ones, some to prepare for the festivities of the evening, but many-oh, how many!--to weep for the loved and lost, filling unmarked graves in a foreign and hostile land. And I am of the last. There is joy, tempered indeed with chastened sorrow, in the household circle here; and in my jealous pain I could not brook it, so stole away here to muse upon the past. But, like healing balm, the dew of Christ's love has fallen afresh upon my heart, and there is no bitterness now mingled with the sad, sweet memories, that throng my mind's mirror. "When He giveth quietness, who can make afraid?" My dear old home, how plainly it rises before me, with the old familiar places and sights and sounds! It stood on the outskirts of the little village of Drécy, about twelve miles north-east of the now well-known fortress of Belfort. The village was small and straggling, consisting of one long irregular street, with two shorter ones crossing it at the further end, forming an open space, or "Place," as the villagers ambitiously styled it; in the centre of which was a well, covered by a bell-shaped roof and crucifix, which supplied most of the cottagers with water, and was so excellent a gathering-place for the village gossips, male and female. The village itself stood on no direct road, though through it a rough winding one led across a spur of the mountain to the little town of Molineau; but at the extreme end, and exactly opposite our gates, a broad, open avenue of poplars led directly into the Belfort road, at the distance of about half a mile. The people of Drécy were chiefly miners, employed in the neighbouring copper and lead mines. There were few houses beyond the dignity of cottages, some were mere huts; but each had its little garden, many its small field and vineyard. Sheltered from the north and east winds by the "Colline Rouge," as it was called, perhaps from the remains of an old red sandstone castle which stood there, it was as fair and bright a spot as one would wish to see. Ah! poor Drécy, how does it look in this day's sunshine? Not as last year, for the tempest of war has reached even that quiet nook. The little gray church, with its picturesque graveyard on the side of the hill, its rudely-carved wreaths and crosses and tokens of rustic affection, and the curé's small dwelling, with its honeysuckle-covered porch, finished off the street. Then came our house, "Le Petit Château," as it was called, to distinguish it from the stately mansion of the De Maurences that frowned down on the village from the opposite hill. The large gates, with hinges so rusty from age, that I think it would almost have brought down the gray moss-covered pillars that supported them, had any one tried to open them, which no one ever had done since I could remember, faced, as I said, down the straight avenue that led into the Belfort road; and the small door beside them, which we used, opened into a paved court, surrounded with shrubs, and having a large fountain basin in the centre, with the moss-grown figure of a nymph holding a vase in her hand, from which water had once flowed; but the fountain, like everything else, was worn out and dilapidated. A flight of stone steps led into the entrance hall, guarded by two griffins of gray stone, similar to those which surmounted the pillars of the great gates-objects half of amusement, half of terror, to me in my childhood. The house was large, and built chiefly of wood in an oblong square, with a queer pointed turret at one end, and rows of high, narrow windows. The high pointed roof was of red tiles, with many dormer casements. Most of the rooms were unfurnished and left to the tenantry of rats,-far the most lively part of the inhabitants. On the southern side a large garden sloped down in terraces: more than half of it was waste, and the trees, once clipped into shapes of bird or beast. had grown into uncouth monsters; and grass, fruit, and flowers alike ran wild. At the extreme end was a low wall, behind which the ground fell away rapidly into a narrow gorge, through which the little river Arle flowed over its rocky bed. At the bottom of this gorge was a bridge, where the rough, steep, bridle-path that skirted our garden led by a shorter route into the Belfort road. Oh, memory! memory! how often dost thou bring that bridge before me! Down each side of this path the woods swept close and thick-indeed, woods and hills were the sole features of our landscape. A year ago these things were only endeared to me as the haunts of my childhood; the scene of many sweet, peaceful, and happy days. Now, every trivial point I have mentioned is linked— darkly or brightly-with some thrilling remembrance. The poplar avenue- -the flight of stone steps-the arbour by the last garden wall-the path leading by the door in it up to the summit of the Colline Rouge-the bridge over the Arle, with the withered tree beyond-the curé's tiny dwelling-the little churchyard,-cach has its part, its own story. Such was the home in which last May found me dwelling, a quiet and dreamy, but happy girl; lonely, indeed, for I had no companions, no young friends. Our household consisted of my father and myself; Barbe and Pierre, two old faithful servants; Victoire, an orphan girl, whom Barbe had brought up; and Blaise Dufour, a hired boy of sixteen, who helped Pierre in the garden and with the rougher and harder parts of his work, for Pierre was already old and infirm. Such was our household, almost patriarchal in its simplicity. My father was of ancient family, but poor indeed, Barbe's excellent management and rigid economy alone enabled us to live in comfort; for beyond the château my father possessed little property, and was far too much engrossed with his beloved books to trouble himself about pecuniary matters, leaving all to Barbe. My poor, faithful Barbe! from the day when she led me, a weeping child of nine, from my dead mother's side, and told me she would be a mother to me instead of the one who had gone to heaven,-" whatever the priest might say," she muttered, she had been, next to my father, my best and kindest friend. Dear, faithful Barbe, so stern and almost forbidding in exterior and manners, so tender and true of heart! I believe she, too, has gone to Him who will not quench the "dimly-burning flax." CHAPTER II. MY PARENTS. been ill, and looked sadly worn and broken; and I had sprung up suddenly, they told me, from a child to a woman. The grave, still life of the convent, in which I was then the only boarder, may have helped to make me older than my years. Be that as it may, my father started when I entered the room, and after the first embrace, he held me from him and gazed long and earnestly in my face, his own working and quivering strangely with emotion. Then he said, in a low voice, shaken with some deep feeling, "Léonie, my child, your poor old father cannot do without you longer; he will not need you long. Are you willing to come home with him at once-to-day?" Was I willing? Ah! I feel even now the joy that thrilled through me. My father needed me! I could be a comfort to him at last, could tend him, be with him as I so longed to! I could only reply by a passionately tearful embrace, in which the ice melted, never to close up between us again. When I reached home, Barbe's first exclamation, as she viewed me with the proud gaze of satisfied affection, gave me the clue to my father's agitation. She said, "But certainly it is her mother over again!" FOR three years after my mother's death, hers was the only care I knew. My father shut himself up with his books more closely than ever, and until at Barbe's earnest representation he roused himself sufficiently to place me in a convent at Vesoul, I ran wild. There I remained another three years, learning all the kind simple sisters could teach me, and returning at intervals only to find my dear father more absorbed, if possible, than ever in his studies. Though always kind and indulgent, his grave pre-occupied manner chilled me. I never thought of taking to him. my little pleasures and difficulties for sympathy or solution; and by degrees, in the years that followed my mother's death, our intercourse be- | came limited to our silent meals, at which he was frequently too much engrossed with a book or with his thoughts to notice me, and to the morning and evening salutation and blessing. Still I loved and revered him then, and hungered after tokens of his affection. How often have I lingered at his study door, which I never presumed to enter unbidden, or timidly followed him as he paced up and down the terraced garden paths, in hopes of getting one of those rare smiles of tenderness which sent my heart leaping for joy, or receiving some mark, however slight, of the love which I knew, in spite of his apparent cold-time passed in the summer which followed my ness and indifference, lay deep in his heart for his little motherless girl. But from the moment we met in the little convent parlour at Vesoul, when he unexpectedly arrived to take me home three months before the appointed time, all this has changed, and each day, each week, each month, but strengthened the bond that united us. I had not seen him for many months, nearly a year, and during that time I think we had both altered greatly. He had Yes; and the heart that seemed to have been laid in that mother's early grave, woke up to fresh life and love under the spell of the strong likeness they said had grown up between me and the girl many recollected as M. St. Hilaire's young bride, whom I remembered only as the pale, sad, drooping invalid. And so I settled down once more in the quiet home of my childhood. Very calmly and quietly the time glided away, till that May morning came which was to be so eventful to me, so fraught with powers to influence me for time and for eternity. Very happily the return from the convent; my father gradually regained much of his old strength, though he was then more than sixty years of age, and his figure was bowed, and his face pale and furrowed with long years of study and care, disappointment and sorrow. I spent much time with him from the first. The mornings he always passed in his study, surrounded with books and papers; but it never disturbed him when I sat with my work in the |