else to touch her. Every morning after breakfast, he goes down into the kitchen, and Martha, the cook, gives him a bag with his comb and brush in it, and he carries this upstairs for grandpapa or Aunt Sarah to brush him; and he goes to the gate the moment he sees the little boy come with grandpapa's newspaper, and takes the paper and carries it into the parlour to grandpapa.

Rough really seems to understand everything that is said to him. If grandpapa or Aunt Sarah talk about going out for a walk, he understands in a moment, and begins to jump about and bark, and beg to go. Sometimes Aunt Sarah spells the word instead of speaking it, if she does not wish him to know that she is going out; but now he understands just as well when she says w-a-l-k, as if she mentioned the word.

When any of us are coming to Reading, Aunt Sarah generally tells Rough; and then all the day he is constantly jumping up on the chair in the window, whenever he hears the sound of wheels, to see if we have arrived. And the first thing he does, when we come in, is to dance about with delight, and lick us all over.

Rough is not like some people either, who forget their friends as soon as they are gone. A friend of grandpapa's used very often to come to the house, a young man, whose name was John Barlow. Rough was extremely fond of him, and was always wild with delight when he heard his step come to the door. But about two years

ago Mr. Barlow went away to India, and all that time Rough has scarcely ever heard his name mentioned; but one day, a little while ago, when Aunt Nan was staying in Reading, Aunt Sarah said to her, 'Do you know if anything has been heard lately of John Barlow?' Directly Aunt Sarah mentioned his name, Rough, who was lying on the sofa, pricked up his ears, jumped down and came up to Aunt Sarah, as much as to say, 'What were you saying about my friend?' So then Aunt Sarah said to him, Why, Rough, do you want to see John Barlow again?' Then Rough ran to the chair at the window,

and looked out to see if he were there; and when he could see no one, he barked and whined, just as he does when he wants something; and all the evening afterwards, whenever he heard the sound of wheels in the road, he got upon the chair in the window, and looked and listened as though he were expecting some one to come to the house. One day Aunt Sarah took Rough with her into the pastry-cook's shop, and there she bought a cake. When Rough saw so many nice things there, he began directly to sit up and beg in front of the counter, which made the people laugh; but Aunt Sarah said to him, 'No, Rough, you can't have anything now; but this evening, after supper, you shall have a piece of this cake.'

Rough watched Aunt Sarah carry the cake home, and he saw her put it in the cupboard in the parlour; but he did not beg for any more then. Directly after supper, however, he came up into the parlour, and he went to the cupboard door and tried to scratch it open. Then he sat up and begged, and finding Aunt Sarah did not take any notice of him, he barked and scratched at the door again, until she took the cake out of the cupboard, when he was so delighted to find that she remembered it as well as he. It is very seldom that Rough does anything mischievous or troublesome, but he has two naughty tricks, for which he has sometimes to be punished. One of these is pulling the mats about the hall, and the other is hiding things. He used to be very fond of getting hold of the mousetrap, and carrying it about in his mouth; and one day he took it down into the garden, and buried it in the ground, and it was ever such a long time before it could be found again. He also once pulled down a stocking, which one of the servants had washed and hung up to dry, off the line, and tried to bury that. It is very curious to see him when he has done anything wrong, for he always comes creeping up to grandpapa, with his tail hanging down, and looking so ashamed, just as if he felt he must confess his fault.

Rough has three very good points about him, by means

of which it is that he has learned to do so much, and to be so clever and intelligent. He pays great attention to everything which is said to him; he takes pains to learn what he is taught; and he remembers things so well.

I think these are the lessons that we may learn from Rough's life; for I am sure if a dog can understand and do so much, a child might in the same way learn a great deal more.

THE CHILD'S QUESTION.

WHERE are you, sister Agnes?
I've sought you far and near;
And when I ask the others,
They weep and say, 'Not here.'

I miss you at my lessons,
You always helped me through;
I miss you at my playtime,
For none can play like you.

I miss you most at evening,
When kneeling by your side:
You bade me pray to Jesus,
Who for my sins hath died.

For Jesus wants to show you
That He will be your Friend;
His love is always tender,

His love can never end.

'Twas He who brought me hither,
And He will bring you too,
If you give your heart to Him,
And learn His will to do.

And heaven indeed is lovely,
And all things bright and fair;
Because our Lord and Saviour
Is ever living there!

NITA.

WE ARE SEVEN.

'The whole family in heaven and earth.'-EPH. iii. 15.

ANY of you remember those touching verses, in which a great poet tells us how he met a little girl of eight years old, and asked her how many brothers and sisters she had. She answered, 'There are seven of us: two brothers gone to sea; two of us living at a place a long way off; two of us lying in the churchyard; and not far from them,' she said, 'I live with my mother.' The good man tells us how he went on to say to the child, that if two out of the seven brothers and sisters were dead, then there were only five in the family now. But he tells how the little girl resisted such a thought; how she would count, in the number of her brothers and sisters, the brother and sister that were in heaven. 'How many are there of

you,' once more said the kind poet, 'if there are two in heaven, and only five left in this world?' But you remember how she still answered 'Seven.' When she counted up the number of her brothers and sisters, she counted the dead ones too; she could not think that, though her brother and sister had gone away, they were not her brother and her sister yet. Quite true they no longer lived in her house, nor played with her on the green; quite true that now for many a day she had not seen them nor talked with them; quite true they were living now in heaven with One who was so kind to little children when on earth: but, for all this, the wise little girl knew that they had been her brother and her sister once; and she was sure that, wherever they were, her brother and her sister they would be. St. Paul would have said she was right. If you had asked him how many there were in a Christian family, of which five were in this world and two with our blessed Redeemer, he would have said 'Seven.' He would have sided with the little girl who, in reckoning up her brothers and sisters, did not forget the dead ones. It is quite certain that he thought that though the dark stream of death part believers on earth from believers in heaven, it breaks no tie of grace nor of nature.

'The saints on earth and those above,

But one communion make,

Joined to their Lord in bonds of love,
All of His grace partake.

One family we dwell in Him;

One church above, beneath,
Though now divided by the stream,

The narrow stream of death.

One army of the living God,

To His command we bow;

Part of the host have crossed the flood,

And part are crossing now.'

-From Sunday Afternoons at the Parish Church.