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glory. Convinced of his error, Louis took his mother's hand, and kissing it, said:

'Well, dear mamma, I will make it my glory to follow your counsels and to obey you.'

Thus, at an early age, he had learned the importance of the commandment, 'Honour thy father and thy mother.'

To show his affection for his mother, every morning when the weather permitted he gathered a bouquet for her. When unable to do so, he would say, 'I am displeased with myself; I have not this morning earned mamma's first kiss.' Children, never bo ashamed to show your love for your parents. Boys sometimes talk with contempt of being 'tied to a mother's apron strings;' but there is nothing more worthy of a manly boy—a boy of really noble character—than attachment and loving obedience to a mother.

On another occasion he took a flute belonging to a page, and hid it in a tree. The queen heard of this, and in order to teach him he had done wrong, shut up his dog in a dark closet. The whining of the dog excited his pity; and going to his mother declared that he and not the dog should be punished, as the dog had nothing to do with the fault . So having got the dog released, he underwent the punishment for teasing the page. On getting out again, he took the flute and returned it to the owner. We should learn from this never to let others, not even dumb animals, suffer the punishment for what we have done.

When busy one day with his flowers, a poor woman came to him and asked him to carry her petition for help to the queen. Next day she came back eager to hear the result of his mission. Handing her a piece of gold, 'That,' he said, 'is from mamma, and this'—giving her a bouquet—'is my present.'

In company with his mother, he visited frequently the hospitals. There he delighted in cheering the patients with gifts. He gathered his pocket-money in order to have more to give away. The king, not

knowing the reason, one day came upon his stock of money.

'What,' he asked, 'are you hoarding like the misers?'

'Yes, papa,' he answered, 'I am a miser, but it is for the poor foundlings. Ah! if you were to see them, they are truly piteous.'

The king of course expressed his approval of the object.

Misfortunes at length befell the king. The people rose against him. He, the queen, and his family were imprisoned. The rebels went still further; the king was brought to trial, condemned, and executed. The party who supported the government declared his son ruler; and thus the prince was made king, under the name of Louis XVH., when he was only eight years old. He, however, never had the real power, as his foes were stronger. They kept him in prison and ill-treated him in many ways. He bore his hardships with a noble spirit .

'H set at liberty,' asKed one who had been very cruel to him, 'what would you do to me?'

'1 would forgive you,' was the answer.

He was forced to endure greater trials still. His mother, Marie Antoinette, was condemned and executed also; so that now he was left an orphan when only eight years old, in the hands of his enemies. Release came at length in the form of death. The ill-treatment he received made his health give way. On the last day of his life, the attendant said:

'I hope you are not in pain just now.'

'Oh, yes!' he answered, 'I am still in pain, but not nearly so much—the music is so beautiful!'

'From what direction do you hear the music?'

'From above.'

Later on he said: 'From amongst all the voices, I have distinguished that of my mother!' These were almost his last words. Already he was hearing the music of heaven. Soon after he died, aged only ten. Surely few children have had a harder lot . Surely few have borne their trials so well. j. „.«.

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surely find it so; and as the early flowers die in the valleys, the late flowers will bloom upon the hills.

Have you joy in the meadows—in the windy and long grass? Then come, little one, this glad summer day.

St. Asaph is a quiet little city, not very far from the sea, yet gathering round its cathedral with a dreamy, forgotten look. And if you go there, you will not linger long till you go to St. Mary's in the meadows, three miles away.

Have you a long summer day? Then be content to walk, and gather without grudging the wealth of the hedgerows as you go. Sweet with a tangle of sweetness they, are on this pleasant wayside.

The wild-flowers, familiar and dear, greet you like happy friends. But here and there a strange, bright presence shines up amidst the green leaves. One of these, if 'tis early autumn, is a straight, tall spike of berries, of glorious crimson colour, on a stem of vivid green. It gleams out in bold, bright beauty among the soft, fading things. You see it once, and never forget it more.

You wonder and ask for its name. You are told it is the arum, or perhaps the cuckoo-pint, or the wake-robin it may be. For all these names it bears—a strange and bright thing, which is sure to greet your eye as you go to St. Mary's in the meadows. Trace of leaves you find none; yet, in the early summer time, quaint and curious leaf and flower spring up where the red berries grow. And had you been rash enough to taste it, the scorching pain of lip and tongue had made you remember unpleasingly this plant of such vagrant form.

Yet it held a serene place in the herbals of the early time, and was said to hide many virtues in its spathe of quiet green.

You lift your face from the arum berries. You turn and look back. You see on its low, rising ground the tower of St. Asaph's Cathedral. The trees are between you and it. But they part with a kindly grace, to leave a glimpse between their branches of the square old tower.

Many a page of history has been lived there. But you love the meadows better, do you, little one? Then, pass on.

There, beneath yon elm, is an old man leaning on his staff. He looks out wistfully on the yellowing fields of corn. He knows every field, you are sure, and every meadow and tree, like a song that is learned in youth, and rings on till the resting time.

You ask him shyly and gently, with respect to his gray hairs:

'Are we near St. Mary's? Is the chapel in the meadows far off?'

He answers quaveringly, and points with his withered hand.

Then you know he loved these sunny meadows in his boyhood far away.

Down some quiet, leafy lanes. Yon have reached your journey's end. That is the river Elwy, and these the meadowlands, and yonder the cluster of trees which screens the ruined chapel.

The river, in a pure, blue bend, scarcely whispers under the trees, and the sunshine floods the daisied grass with such a glorious loveliness. And deep here among the daisies, and there among the long, meadow grass, you press to that bower of trees where the leafage gives deepest shade.

As you near it, wet cresses touch your feet; and when you bend down to gather them, the tiniest little melody greets your ear, if you are still.

Is it some faint, lingering echo of the psalms and hymns of long ago? Some note of sweet music dropped down for the ages to keep evermore, that the glad childheart may be softened when it hears, and the worn old heart be calmed?

It is surely meant here we should 'drink of the brook in the way,' and, bending over it, think of the 'river of the water of life'; of the 'river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God.'

For this low, perpetual hymn is the voice of a little stream that gurgles out from beneath the chapel wall, and broadens among the sweetnesses of wet forget-menots and cresses, blessing, like the peace of God, whatever it touches there.

You follow it nearer its source, and come to the little chapel. A low arched doorway, some bits of roofless wall enclosing the pure cold well of water fringed with ferns and flowers.

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GLIMPSES OF THE NEW HEBRIDES.

The people of the early centuries felt it so dear a gift, they built this little chapel over it for perpetual praise to God.

Praise for His common gifts—for the pure water, for the dear constant flowers! Let us not forget we owe praise to God for every lovely thing—for His gifts of beauty abundantly as well as His gifts of grace.

Never think in your holiest hours consecration means turning aside, and slighting the loveliness of life which is God's mirror to us. Cultivate, rather, with a deeper joy every perception of beauty— not alone in what are called sacred things, but everything in art and life. All the more deep and delicate and full will be your praise to God. Will not your holy harp sound with more varied strings? Will you not have the costlier offerings to lay on the altar of thanksgiving?

Do not forget this, little student of art or science. In your child enthusiasm for beauty or knowledge you are reaching after God. He wills you should follow Him thus as wtll as in love and faith. And if in the dark you should lose His hand, yet believe He is holding you still. The mists only rise from the marshes. Heaven above is clear.

Yet why should I say this, and the sunny meadows all around, and two great lovely walnut trees shading our rest, and rejoicing in the light of God?

Why, I cannot tell. Beautiful St Mary's in the heart of Wales is flooded with sweetness and joy. Adieu, dear little companion, let us sometime come again.

H. w. H. w.

GLIMPSES OF THE NEW HEBRIDES.

WILLIAMU.

WOULD you like to hear an account of the great change wrought on the island of Aneityum described by one of the natives? This good man's name was Williamu. Mr Inglis, the missionary,

brought him to this country to assist in translating the New Testament into the language of Aneityum. While in Scotland, in 1862, Williamu was asked to address the Synod. He spoke in his own language, Mr Inglis translating as follows:

'All you good men, you servants of Jesus, you who harp with the harps of God, and preach the gospel of Jesus our Lord, you whom He has chosen and appointed, you who are the pillars of His church on earth, you who lead the praises of His people—the saints. God has placed you in this land for the benefit of the whole world. The gospel is a spring of water which God himself has opened, it flows like a river: he has made a large and deep pool in this land, that from this pool it might be sent forth to every people, and flow into all lands. . . .

I wish to tell you a little about us who live on the other side of the world. Formerly, when we lived in heathenism, when the Word of our Lord Jesus Christ had not come to us, we clave fast to the works of heathenism, works that brought misery: we could not give them up nor forsake them, because we delighted in them; we took delight in vanity, till the gospel of Jesus came to us through His servants. The power of God came with His servants; it was like a hammer and a weapon made of iron; it opened a door and light shone in on us. They spake to us and said, 'This Jesus whom we preach to you is the Son of the one God; forsake your idols and believe in Him, He only can save you.'

But when we heard this we were surprised and afraid, and trembled and said, 'Who is this Jesus? and what is this God? we know them not, we cannot receive the religion of another people. If we receive another Lord, our own gods will be envious, and will kill every one of us.' We consulted among ourselves, and said, 'Let us be strong, and carry on war, and practise witchcraft, and sacrifice to the gods, and commit murder, and keep up all the customs of our own land, and put a stop to this new religion, that the missionaries may leave us and go away back to their own land.'

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