It was a deeply solemn scene, and if tears were shed, they were tears of grateful joy.

As we rose from our knees, Mr. H- shook hands with Orell, and greatly was I astonished, as the room was all but dark, to see the apparently almost unconscious man stretch out his hand toward me; and when I came near, he grasped mine warmly. Another moment and we were gone. We had seen Orell for the last time!

As the next morning dawned, his spirit returned to God who gave it; was, I firmly believe, added to the number of those who, through eternity, shall ascribe their redemption to Him who "bought them with his blood." A week later, as, from the rectory garden, we heard the words of the minister when the body was being committed to the grave, we felt that, for this brother, plucked, almost at the last hour, as a brand from the burning, we might, without presumption, look "with sure and certain hope" for a "resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ."

A visit to the widow elicited many gratifying incidents. His last powers of speech had been employed in asking pardon from his wife for his unchristian conduct, and in exhorting his sons not to follow their father's ungodly conduct, but to serve God, giving him their hearts now in the time of health and strength, and to be dutiful children to their surviving parent.

There are still many who, like Orell, need to be pulled, as it were, out of the jaws of the devouring lion. Oh, that all those who have themselves learned to know the preciousness of Jesus as their Saviour, might be very earnest in seeking to bring other perishing sinners to him. Precious are the words of encouragement in Holy Writ to those who try to turn a sinner from the error of his ways. True, man's voice can only pierce the ear, and reach the understanding. God alone can touch the heart; but there is a divine, a mighty power in the name of Jesus; it has pleased God to make "Christ crucified both the power of God and the wisdom of God."

Let all who have themselves responded to the invitation of Christ, seek to make the fulness and freeness of that invitation more widely known, taking courage from the thought that he who died to save sinners willeth not that any should perish, but is even now WAITING TO BE GRACIOUS."

"Hell's eternal gulf is yawning,

And souls are perishing in hopeless sin.— Jerusalem's bright gates are standing open,Go to the banished ones, and fetch them in!

"Go with the name of Jesus to the dying,

And speak that name in all its living power; Why should thy fainting heart grow chill and weary, Canst thou not watch with me one little hour?"

B

E off with you; a prison-door is no place for a child like you! What are you after ringing the bell? You may well start at the sound. That there is a place you'll find it hard to get into, but much harder to get out of, I take it!"

So spake one of the soldiers of Francis, late King of Naples, to a timid little Italian girl, who had ventured to ring the bell at the door of the prison in the town of Gaeta. The child shuddered at the heavy clang of the bell, which sounded to her like a knell, and she was alarmed at being addressed by the soldier. This was the first time that poor Marina had ever ventured alone so far from her home, and never before had the child gone near that terrible prison. Very dreadful to her looked the thick massive door, studded with great iron nails. It needed all the love for a father which warmed her young heart, to give her courage to pull the bell.

The soldier laughed as he walked away, and Marina stood alone by the terrible door, longing, yet almost dreading, to see it unclosed. The great door was not opened at all, but a little door was opened close by it, and a stern-looking man, with a thick black beard, and with a heavy bunch of keys hanging at his girdle, looked out on the child who stood trembling without in the gray light of morning.

"What do you want?" he asked gruffly.

"I want to see Signor Martini, the jailer; I've a letter for him from his sister."

"I'm Jacobo Martini," said the man, and he took the letter from the trembling hand of Marina, tore it open, and read it.

"So you're the child of Marco Colletti," said the jailer, crunching up the letter in his hand after he had read it; "child of the man who was idiot enough to get himself shut up here, just because he would read the Bible with his friends in spite of all the friars and monks, instead of minding his business, and not troubling his head with matters that did not concern him."

"The Bible does concern every one," thought the child; "and it is a great shame that any good Christian should be put in prison for reading it, when the Lord himself said, Search the Scriptures." But little Marina did not venture to utter aloud what she thought.

"My sister prays and entreats me to let you pay a visit to your father in prison," continued the jailer; "but I can't do it, 'tis clear against rules, so you'd better be off as fast as you came. I would not let any one visit Colletti's cell to please twenty sisters, if I had them."

Marina clasped her little hands in earnest entreaty. "Oh, Signor," she cried, "my poor mother is so ill; she has scarcely risen from her bed since father was dragged off to prison: if she have not news of him her heart will break!" The dark eyes of the Italian child were brimming over with tears.

"To ruin a man, and put him in chains, and break his wife's heart, is pretty sharp punishinent for the crime of reading a book," muttered Martini, who was by no means so hard as he seemed, and who felt an interest in the prisoner, who never murmured, but who bore all his trials with manly patience. Marini glanced up through her tears at the black-bearded man, and fancied that she saw in his rough face something like pity; it gave her courage to plead yet more earnestly still.

"Oh, think what you would feel were you in the place of my good innocent father, if you were shut up in a dismal cell, away from every one whom you loved, and if you had a little girl, one poor little girl, who came begging and praying just to see you"-Marina could not finish her sentence, she was fairly sobbing aloud.

"I have a little girl, and about your age," said the jailer; "she's dear to me as a vein of my heart." He glanced from one side to another, to see that none of the soldiers were near. "Dry your tears, little one, and come in; I cannot take you to your father's cell, for there's always a guard in the corridor, but I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll give you a sight of Marco Colletti through the bars of his window, from another in the corner of the court. You may go home to your sick mother and tell her you've seen him, but you must promise not to call out to him, for walls have ears, and you might get us both into a scrape."

Thankfully Marina promised to be silent, and eagerly she entered the prison through the little door, which Martini closed and locked behind her.

Even in a climate so warm as that of Italy, there was something chilling in the long dreary paved passages, dimly lighted, through which Marina followed the jailer. Every window seemed barred, every door ironstudded, and the echo of Martini's heavy footsteps sounded hollow and dreary. While the poor child, with a sinking heart, is traversing the prison, I will tell how Colletti came to be shut up in this gloomy abode.

About eighteen months before this time, Mrs. Fairley, an English lady, came to Gaeta on account of her state of health. She was so weak and fragile as to be unable even to walk across the street, and the doctors had sent her to pass the winter in warm, bright Italy, as the only chance of saving her life. Every day a wheeled chair was hired for Mrs. Fairley to take the air in without fatigue. As Marco Colletti had a very good chair, and was one of the most respectable men in Gaeta, he was always employed to draw the Signora (that is the Italian name for lady), where the fresh pure air could fan her pallid cheeks.

Marco observed that the invalid generally carried with her a book, not very large, but thick, in which she frequently read when he stopped for some minutes to rest; but he did not at first know that it was an Italian Bible, as he never had seen one before except the great one in church, which was only opened by the priest.

Marco became much interested in the Signora, she was so gentle and patient. Pain and sickness never drew a murmur from her lips. She was ever cheerful, and thankful for the smallest kindness. On her part, Mrs. Fairley much liked Colletti, who did all in his power to make her comfortable, carefully arranging her cushions, and avoiding every stone in the road that might cause a jolt to the lady.

Mrs. Fairley had thanked the Italian one day for bringing her a glass of water, when Marco Colletti re

plied: "I would do anything for the Signora, she is so good! I cannot think how the Signora is so patient."

"I learn from this book to let patience have her perfect work," said the lady, resting her thin hand on the Bible; "all that can make us true servants of God, and all that can make us happy for ever, is to be found in this blessed volume."

Mrs. Fairley had often wished to speak on the subject of religion to her faithful Italian, but she had never till then had the courage to do so. In dear happy England every respectable family has its Bible, and even the children are taught to read God's Word; alas, they too often read it heedlessly, they do not value the treasure; like light and air, it is a blessing so common that they forget to be thankful for it. But very different was the case in the kingdom of Naples a few years ago; rich strangers from other countries might indeed have their Bibles with them, but the Book of God was carefully kept back from the poor ignorant natives of the land.

That was the first time that Mrs. Fairley had spoken to Marco of the Scriptures, but it was by no means the last. He heard her read the wonderful truths of the gospel, how the Saviour left heaven and died upon earth to give free and full salvation to all who truly believe. He learned how those who believe in the Lord will try to keep all his commandments, and, safe in his love, need fear neither the hour of death nor the day of judgment.

Mrs. Fairley's health was greatly restored by her stay at Gaeta. On the day that she left it she offered a piece of gold as a parting present to Marco Colletti, who had served her so long and well. The lady wondered to see the Italian hesitate, as if he hardly liked to accept the money.

"Ah! Signora," he faltered, drawing back his hand, "if I might venture to say it, there is something that I should value far more than gold," and Marco glanced at the Italian Bible which lay on the lady's knee.

The eyes of Mrs. Fairley sparkled; she knew not till then what deep root the Word had taken in the heart

of poor Marco. Yet the lady hesitated, and said gravely to the Italian, “I should be afraid to leave this book with you, lest it should get you into trouble."

"Signora," cried Colletti eagerly, "if that be your only reason from withholding it from one who would dearly prize it, give it to me; I will joyfully bear any risk that I may possess the words of eternal life!"

So Marco Colletti had the Bible, and in his home it did not lie dusty, unopened, neglected, as in too many in England; he read it, his wife read it, and they taught their little Marina to love it. Secretly, indeed, they read, but never a day passed without some precious verse being learned by heart. Then Marco could not help wishing that some of his neighbours and friends might share his treasure: he quietly spoke now to one, now to another, till at last a little band of hearers gathered in his cottage every night to listen to the message of salvation which Marco read from his Bible.

This came at last to the ears of the king's confessor. One day Marco's family, when quietly seated at dinner, were startled by the entrance of a party of soldiers, come to arrest the man who had dared to read the Bible to his neighbours. In vain were the tears and entreaties of his wife and Marina; Marco was carried off to prison, and none of his family permitted to see him, till the jailer, as the reader already has heard, touched with pity at the sorrow of the child, allowed her to have a distant glimpse of her father through the bars of his cell.

Oh, how Marina longed for the prisoner to rise and come to the grating where she could see him; how sorely tempted she was to break her promise and call out the dear name "father." Once only Marco passed before his window for a moment, and then Marina's eyes were so dim with tears on hearing the clank of his chain as he moved, that she could scarcely distinguish his face. Gladly would she have stood watching for hours, but the jailer would wait no longer. Now you must go back," he said; “I have risked too much already."

"Oh, Signor, I thank you from my heart!" cried Marina; "and God will bless you for your kindness. Will you do one thing-one little thing more?" Marina drew out a single ripe peach. "I cannot go to my father, but you see him every day. Oh, give him but this one peach from his child; it is the first that has ripened on our wall.”

The jailer smiled, took the peach, and promised that the prisoner should have it. He then hurried back the unwilling Marina through the gloomy passages, and let her out at the little door. "There's not many a one," he gruffly observed, "that has made so short a stay in this prison."

Little had poor Marco Colletti guessed that his child was so near him, when he sat stern and sad in his cell, with his clasped hands resting on his knee. As week after week, and even months rolled on, it seemed to Marco as if all the world had forgotten him; and, like many others when in long trouble, he was tempted to feel as if God had forgotten him too. Marco had at first been brave and hopeful, but his health and spirits were now beginning to fail. He longed to be a free man once more, to throw away his chain, to be again in his home, and look upon beloved faces. Sadly he recalled every event of the last day that he had spent with his family.

on the wall. Alas, that such pretty flowers should fade away!' said my Marina. I told my child that something better would come-that the little hard green balls left behind would swell and grow, and ripen and sweeten, till at last fine peaches would hang where the lovely blossoms had been. But my child was not satisfied yet. I wish,' said Marina, that the peaches would come all in a day; it is so wearisome to wait for months!' I told her-ah, I need my own lesson nowthat God's time is the best time in this as in everything else, and that we must learn, like the English Signora, to let patience have her perfect work. Would that I had patience now given to me to bear this dreary confinement! All my blossoms of joy have long since gone, and I grow weary of waiting for the fruit."

A heavy sigh escaped from poor Marco Colletti; he pressed his hand over his eyes. Just then the jailer's heavy tread was heard in the passage, followed by the grating of the key in the lock, and Jacobo Martini entered the cell.

"Here's something to add to your prison fare," said the jailer, good humouredly. "A child of yours was hanging about the door this morning, and she asked me to give you this;" and the rough but kind-hearted man held out to the prisoner little Marina's ripe peach.

With what delight did the father receive the simple gift of his child! It was not merely that the cool juicy peach was itself delicious to one long kept upon bread and water; nor was it merely because it came as a token of love. The sweet peach preached a lesson to Marco of patient waiting upon God. The Lord in his own good time had ripened the peach, changed the sour into sweet, and the hard into soft; and so, in his own good time, would he change sorrow into joy for those who, trusting in him, let patience have her perfect work.

Marco's happy hour of deliverance was near. The troops of the King of Italy took the town of Gaeta, and set the prisoners free! Great joy and thanksgiving were in the home of Marco. The husband embraced the wife, the father the child; they might all now be happy together, and read God's Word without fear.

Marco had kept the stone of his peach, and the day after his liberation he planted it in his garden.

"Ah, but we shall have so very long to wait before a peach-tree grows from that stone!" cried Marina. "We have learned how to wait," said her smiling father. "That which springs from the stone of the peach which gave me such joy in my prison, will always serve to remind us to let patience have her perfect

NE beautiful afternoon in the autumn of 1852, a stranger might have been seen strolling along the seashore at D. Presently, for the better enjoyment of the view, he took the upper path leading above the cliffs which form the chief attraction of that part of the coast. The path is in itself a picturesque one, sloping banks of brushwood descending to the sands, every here and there broken in upon by rugged cliffs.

As Mr. C walked slowly along, gazing on the sunset tints, already beginning to shed a glory over both sea and land, he was startled by the sound of many merry little voices, which made him aware of two facts-that he was not alone; and that what had seemed to him a mere bank of tangled brushwood, was that child's paradise, a thicket of bramble bushes laden with their deep purple fruit. He stood for a little watching the children, as they rushed fearlessly into the thick tangle to secure the prize. But the time passed more quickly than he thought of, and to shorten his walk he descended one of the sloping banks, intending to return by the sands.

Passing along rather in haste, his ear caught a sound of lamentation, which contrasted strangely with the ringing laughter which he had just been listening to; it seemed the sobbing of a little breaking heart. Mr. Chastened to the rock from which the sound came, and found a child sitting there in an agony of weeping. At first she seemed afraid of him; but when he spoke kindly, and asked her to tell him what was the matter that he might help her, she managed to sob out, amidst ber tears,

"Oh, sir, they have all got tinnies but me!" Her deeply-stained mouth and pinafore proved that

she had done her best to have a share of the spoil; but, as she said, every time she slipped her foot the berries fell.

Mr. C- bade her dry her eyes now and go home, but meet him the following evening at the same rock, and she should have a little pitcher like the rest. With a look of wonderful delight, she dropped a curtsey and

ran away.

Reaching her mother's cottage, she ran in breathless to tell her story. She, poor woman, lay in bed, weary with sickness and want, and listened to her little Susan with a smile at her eagerness and impatience for tomorrow to come.

"That was very kind, Susan,” she said; "but you don't know the gentleman."

"Oh, no," said Susan; "but he promised it, mother, and I'm sure he will do it."

Next evening, when the happy hour came, she ran away full of joyful expectation. "My trusting child!” was her mother's thought; "she can believe the word of a stranger, while I, I have doubted the love that I have so long tried and so often proved."

When Susan returned to spread her treasures before her, it was exclaiming, "Oh, mother, I have got more than he promised; he has given me both a basket and a tinny!" and that night the simple trust of her child brought new light to this mother's heart, so that she who had begun the day in the mist of unbelief and doubt, could rest at last on the promise, “My God shall supply all your need, according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus."

"Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength."

X. X.