quietly passed the door on her ass, and she knew that a word to her father would be enough to make him spare her what she now felt to be a very great trial of courage. But then her mother's tears and her mother's kisses! Rosina could not forget these, and she ought to deliver them. Besides, her mother had said such beautiful words from Scripture—oh, if aunt Barbara could but have heard them, surely she would become a peace-maker too, and never be angry or cross any more!

So while the ass went on at her slow, steady pace, little Rosina was repeating to herself over and over again, "Blessed are the peace-makers." Her young heart beat faster as Duchessa stopped, as she often had done before, at the vine-covered porch of Barbara's door, over which hung clusters of ripe dark grapes. Rosina felt almost inclined to cling to her father's arm, and beg him to drive on Duchessa, for she dared not go in by herself; but even one as young as Rosina may be guided by conscience, and conscience was whispering to the child that her mother wished her to go, that it was right to go, and that the great God of peace could put kind thoughts into the heart of her aunt.

Barbara was sitting alone in a darkened room; it was dark because she had made it so ; she had so choked up her window with thick-growing plants that the light which shone so brightly outside could hardly creep in through the leaves. And so poor Barbara was shutting out the sunshine of love from her home and her heart, and making them both dull and cheerless when they might have been so bright. Do you think that the proud, quarrelsome woman was happy? Ah, no, dear reader; for there never is true happiness with sin. It has been truly said that a little sin disturbs our peace more than a great deal of sorrow. Barbara was in her secret soul vexed at having quarrelled with her sister; she was vexed, but she would not own it, for her heart was full of pride. Barbara had resolved never to confess herself wrong, and rather to live all her life unloving and unloved

than to bend her haughty spirit to make friends with her younger sister.

There sat unhappy Barbara, with no companion but bitter thoughts. She felt terribly alone in the world, but it was her own pride and temper that had made a desert around her. She could not help thinking of the happy days of childhood, when she and her sister had been merry playmates together. Barbara's eyes chanced to rest on a little olive-plant in her window, and the sight of that plant had brought back to her memory days of old. She recollected how Bice, then a rosy-cheeked child, had once asked her what shrub or tree she would choose for her own especial favourite.

"I would choose the laurel," had been Barbara's proud reply, "for that is the plant of which wreaths are made for those who conquer in war."

"I would choose the olive," little Bice had said, "for it was the leaf of the olive that was brought by the dove to Noah; and it always seems as if the plant, with its juicy fruit and silvery hue, made one think of gentle peace."

So from that day the olive had always been connected in the mind of Barbara with the thought of her gentle sister.

"I'll throw that plant away; I'll pull it up," muttered Barbara; "I don't care to keep anything now to remind me of her."

The proud woman had hardly uttered the words when a soft, a very soft knock was heard at the door. At Barbara's rough “Come in," the door slowly opened, and a little child appeared, so like to what Bice had been at her age, that Barbara could almost fancy that she was looking again at her earliest playmate. Rosina crept in timidly at first, for she thought that her aunt looked terribly stern.

"Why do you come here?" asked Barbara, with a little softening, however, in her tone.

"I have something to give you from mother," said the child.

"I will take nothing from her," replied Barbara; “I'll return it whatever it be.'

66

Will you?" cried Rosina, suddenly running up to her aunt, and opening wide her little arms. The next moment the arms were clasped tightly round Barbara's neck, and the soft little lips were printing kisses on her cheek.

Barbara was a proud, ill-tempered woman, but she still had a heart, and a heart that might be conquered by love. She would have spurned a gift, but she could not refuse a kiss. Barbara could not help pressing her sister's child to her bosom, and a strange choking sensation appeared to rise in her throat.

"Those are mother's kisses-dear mother's kisses, and you promised to return whatever she sent," cried Rosina. "Give me the kisses back for my mother."

And if Barbara did give the kisses, and if her proud eyes were moist as she did so, who can wonder? She would have mocked at words of reproach! she would have retorted insult or scorn, but the kiss, the fond kiss, sent through the little child, subdued both her anger and pride.

Barbara rose from her seat, and slowly walked to the window-perhaps it was partly to hide her eyes that she did so. She broke off a large branch from the olive, and suddenly turning round, held it out to her little 'niece.

"Take this to your mother from me, Rosina," she said, "and tell her to remember our early choice. The laurel, I have found, bears but a poisonous berry; the fruit of the olive is good, and I will cultivate it from this day."

If Rosina did not fully understand the message, she understood the smile which followed it, which looked so pleasant on a face so lately furrowed with gloomy frowns. And when Rosina, bearing the olive-branch in her little hand, ran out to her father, and told him all that had passed, his look of amusement and pleasure more than rewarded the child for the effort which she had made.

"Bravo! my brave little messenger," exclaimed Carlo

giving Rosina a hearty kiss as he lifted her up to Duchessa's back. "Bravo, little peace-maker!

So you made her give back the kisses again. That bit of olive will bring as much joy to your mother's heart as if it were made of silver, with blossoms of pearl and leaves of gold."

Very joyful was the return of Rosina to her home. The fodder which Carlo procured from the farm, and heaped high on the patient Duchessa, looked like a little throne for the child, who, as she saw her mother standing at her door to welcome her, merrily waved her branch of olive, the token of joy and success.

Carlo planted the olive-twig in his garden, where it took root, and in time grew up to be a goodly tree with blossoms and fruit. Barbara, who was often a guest at her sister's cottage, watched the growth of the olive with peculiar interest, and Rosina always on her aunt's birthday bore to her a little spray from the tree. And when Rosina herself had grown up to be a woman, and married, and had little children of her own, their favourite spot for play was under the shadow of what was called "the peace-maker's tree.” Dear children, plant in the gardens of your own little hearts, the olive branch of peace.

Varieties.

CONVERSION OF LITTLE
CHILDREN.

IN the army upon which
Alexander the Great relied
for the conquest of the
world, there were men who
were born in camp. From
their babyhood they had
handled weapons. They

we

knew nothing but to fight.
They were the conqueror's
chief dependence. If
ever take the world for
Christ, it must be through
the conversion and religious
training of the children. We
cannot begin this work too
early.

PRECIOUS SABBATHS.

HARVEY CAMP.

Now is past the time of teaching, Ended

is the hour we love, Hush'd the voice of friends be

seeching Us to

seek for joys above. Precious

Sabbaths, precious Sabbaths, Swiftly, oh, they swiftly move.

Wake, then, every tender feeling.
Ere from school we go away;
Saviour, come, thy grace revealing,
In our hearts assert thy sway.
Bless us, parting,

On this sacred Sabbath day.

Soon our Sabbaths will be ended,
All our Sabbath schools be past;
Like the leaf, to earth descended,
Withered in the autumn blast,
Life is passing,

We must see the grave at last.

Then may Heaven be beaming o'er us,
With its sunny glorious bright;
And with millions saved before us,
May we join in worlds of light,
Praising Jesus,

Where the Sabbath knows no night.