Roger Oglethorpe hastened back to the village, and in few minutes a party of men went in quest of the corpse, and decently covering it, bore it away to a temporary resting-place. The intelligence was cautiously broken to the Oglethorpes. They received it with a shudder, with even a touch of regret; for they feared that the unfortunate man had been summoned to his last account without any time for reflection, and they would have rejoiced had he been spared to blot out the sins of his past life by years of well-doing and active penitence.

It was never known how Dick Marsland had met his fate; but the most probable conjecture seemed to be, that in his haste to escape from his pursuers, he had drawn too near the edge of the cliff, had lost his footing, and fallen with a crash on the rock beneath. If such were the case, his death must have been instantaneous.

And here I close my simple story. That Jessie Oglethorpe's after-life was chequered with sorrows, my readers will readily believe, because she was human; but that it was in the main a happy and a sunny life, they will also believe, because they know that her heart throbbed with all pure and tender feelings, that her character was unstained by selfishness or falsehood, and that she rested her hope and her faith on a sure foundation-the love of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Farewell!

CHILDREN.

COME to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play;

And the questions that perplex me
Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows
That look toward the sun,

Where thoughts are singing swallows,
And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklets flow;
But in mine is the wind of autumn,

And the first fall of the snow.

Oh! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood-

That to the world are children ;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate

Than reaches the trunk below.

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Come to me, O ye children!

And whisper in my ear

What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.

For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?

Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,

And all the rest are dead.

H. W. Longfellow.

TRUE COURAGE.

HERE was a little boy who had been taught to kneel down every morning and evening, and pray for God's blessing. While he was still very young, he went away from home on a visit to his uncle's house. He there slept with a cousin who was four or five years older than himself. He was surprised to see the big boy lay his head down on the pillow without having opened his Bible, or knelt down for a moment to pray. He felt ashamed and afraid to do what his cousin had not done. The fear of man brought a snare; and for once he crept into bed without having prayed. But the fear of God was in his heart, and it soon drove away the fear of man. He got up, knelt down, and asked God to forgive him. God blessed him, and made his example the means of teaching that very cousin to pray. Those who fear God have nothing to fear.'-Daily Bible Teaching.

THE TRUE MEMOIRS OF OUR DEAR PETS.

BY ANNA J. BUCKLAND,

AUTHOR OF 'NOBLE RIVERS AND THEIR STORIES,' ETC.

R

OUGH is not exactly one of our own pets, because he is grandpapa's dog, and he lives at Reading; but, as we often go there and see him, and are all so fond of him and he of us, I think it is quite fair to put in his life among these memoirs.

Rough is a Scotch terrier, and is covered all over with

long, shaggy hair; it hangs down his legs, and even over his eyes, so that any one would think he could scarcely see; but he is sharp-sighted enough. Grandpapa has had him a long time, so that he is now getting rather old.

Many people say that they never saw such a clever dog as Rough is, he can do so many curious things, and he understands so well what is said to him. If you ask him his name, he says directly 'Wough;' and then if you say to him, 'What was your father's name?' he answers, 'Oul Wough,' which he means for 'Old Rough!'

Besides this he can sing; and it is such fun to hear him he runs up and down such a number of notes, and finishes off with a sort of shake at the end. Sometimes Aunt Sarah sings to him, 'Three little kittens took off their mittens,' and at the end of the verse, where there comes the 'miaw, miaw, miaw,' he sings it in a very thin, squeaky voice, and in the next verse, for the 'purr-r, purr-r, purr-r,' he goes down into a deep growl.

He is always so delighted whenever mamma takes any of her babies to grandpapa's, for he is so fond of babies! He sits up and begs for them; and if he is asked, 'What does the little baby say?' he begins to whine in a very soft, little voice. He was so unhappy once, after mamma had been staying there with the baby and was gone home, that Aunt Sarah dressed him up a doll; and now he always has one, and sometimes two or three. They are kept in a cupboard in the parlour, the door of which he can open himself; and when he wants to play with his doll, he scratches open the cupboard door and takes her out. There are a great number of other things kept in this cupboard, and amongst them is often a plate of biscuits, of which he is particularly fond; but he never touches anything but his doll. He finds the doll by the smell, for he goes and snuffs about until his nose reaches her, and then he takes her out and walks up and down the room, carrying her in his mouth. Sometimes he will walk about for ever so long like this, with the doll in his mouth, and he will not allow any one

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