she gives to us a Rule of Living as well as a Rule of Faith. And this is what I propose now to go on to consider in some points of detail.

Like her Divine LORD she has, as well, her Counsels for those who "would be perfect," and desire to follow Him hereafter "whithersoever He goeth," as also her 'Precepts" for every one who would be her disciple.

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What they are, we shall show in our next Number.

NAOMI.

"And Orpah kissed her mother-in-law; but Ruth clave unto her."-Ruth i. 14.

I AM going back, my daughter, to the land where I was born,
Widow'd, childless, and forsaken; spirit-broken and forlorn :

Thou hast lost thy youth's true guide, and I have lost a well-loved

son,

Better we had died together; but the Will of God be done!

Mother, say not thou art childless; I will never leave thy side,
But will cling to thee in weal or woe, whatever may betide :
I will go where'er thou goest, and in Shiloh's blessed shrine
We will bend the knee together, and thy people shall be mine!

Nay; it cannot be, my daughter, for the land that gave thee birth
Should be dearer far to thee than all the fairest spots of earth:
Go; for she is gone-thy sister-she hath kiss'd me-she is gone:
Give me too thy last sweet kiss, my child; I must return alone!

Mother, mother, I'll not leave thee, till the icy hand of death
Snap the heart strings of my spirit, and put out my flickering breath;
And in death I'll share thy grave; oh, why should we fond hearts
divide?

Faithful ever, ever loving we will slumber side by side.

Like the sighing of the breezes when a hurricane is nigh,

And black thunder clouds are hanging their dark curtains in the sky,

Like the lull before a tempest-silently her sorrow slept,

But, at last, she lifted up her voice-her mournful voice-and wept:

Let us go, thou, my sweet daughter, let us go-in this sad land Sorrow greets us, sorrow meets us-death and woe on every hand. Though the loved ones sleep in Moab, we can talk and think of them In the land of thy adoption-my long sigh'd for Bethlehem !

C.

NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND; OR, THE TWO FORTUNE-TELLERS.

ONE might travel from North to South, and from East to West of England, without finding a prettier village, or a sweeter little dell, than that near which one summer's day a gipsy band drew up their van, and pitched their odd shaped tents.

The church which stands on the brow of a steep hill, may be seen for miles around, and at early morn, whilst the dew lies thick on the grass, and at eventide, when the sun gladdens the west, and the labourer quits his work, the soft sweet tones of its bell from day to day call together the little band of Christian men, women and children, who love to meet their GOD and FATHER in His own most Holy House of Prayer. The Vicarage and National Schools are enclosed within the churchyardgates, but the school has a separate entrance, lest the children should be tempted to play amongst the graves, or gather the beautiful flowers which have been carefully planted over the tombs of those who "sleep in JESUS." The paths are kept well swept and rolled; the grass is always neatly mown, and on Easter Day garlands of Spring's early blossoms deck many of the crosses which are thickly scattered about this quiet resting place, in the centre of which stands an ancient sun-dial, warning the gay that "time is fleeting," and they too must die, whilst it comforts sorrowing mourners with the thought that the hour speeds on when they shall again behold those whom they have laid beneath its peaceful shade. From the church for a mile or more, cottages are clustered in twos and threes, with their patches of garden ground in front, and sheds or sties at the back. Most of the win

dows display a few pet flowers, against many a wall the Banksia rose, and the white Provence has been carefully trained, whilst sweet-scented honeysuckle or the delicate jessamine strays over more than one of the arched porch-ways, beneath which the good woman sits at her needle, and the silver-haired man smokes his evening pipe.

One of these cottages, considerably larger than the others, was distinguished by a board, on which some village artist had painted a quaint-looking animal meant to represent a dog, as underneath it was inscribed in golden capitals, "The Pointer's Inn." Two cards wafered to a front window, informed passers by that here was to be found "Good accommodation for Man and Beast," and that excellent ginger beer might be had for the low sum of one penny a bottle; whilst under the porch, but over the door, appeared the following notice:-"Deborah Wilkinson, Licensed Dealer in Tea, Coffee, Tobacco, and Snuff." Then came a coating of paint, covering words which had been erased since her husband's death, for Mrs. Wilkinson very properly considered a lone quiet woman had better keep to her shop, than allow noisy customers to "Drink Beer on her Premises." Yet it was still called "the Pointer's Inn," and visitors when they came from a distance to see the church, often rested their horse in her stable, and regaled themselves with a simple lunch in her sanded parlour. Now Mrs. Wilkinson was what is sometimes called a "tight little body," just one of those excellent creatures, who without a bit of fuss or bustle, or the least shade of meddling, take the world as they find it, and by their good example contrive to leave it better than it was when they entered it. Snow white was her neatly plaited cap, and the cotton handkerchief, which, pinned across her chest, came peering above the neck of her russety brown gown; a blue and white checked apron made of the same material rich people buy for dusters, was an invariable part of her week-day costume, and I must not forget to add, that her hair was neatly braided, her feet stoutly shod, and her hands at all times scrupulously clean. No less tidy than the hostess herself was "the Parlour," as she called her best room

with its spotless floor, and well scrubbed table, bright candlestick at each corner of the mantelpiece, and crockeryware shepherdess in the centre, horsehair sofa, and pictures which once seen were not likely to be easily forgotten. Under a glass in a shiny black frame appeared "Christian" with a bundle on his back in the " Slough of Despond;" to the right of this hung Mrs. Wilkinson in miniature, when she was a plump, cherry-cheeked lass, whilst on the left was the cherished likeness of her own dear husband, in his white trowsers, Sunday jacket with brass buttons, blue satin wedding waistcoat, and the smart pumps which he only started on "Easter Monday" when the members of the vestry after settling accounts, dined together in his "Sanded Parlour." The opposite side of the Inn was devoted to the shop, which contained every commodity a villager could require, from a halfpenny pipkin to two-and-threepenny fustian, and from a fourpenny "Dutch Bowler" to a small canister of six shilling Hyson, reserved exclusively for the farmer's wives on such state occasions as christenings, weddings, etc. From the Vicar and the Squire downwards, everyone had a fair word for Mrs. Deborah Wilkinson. So great a favourite was she with the villagers, that the good women in their troubles always came to her for a few kindly words of comfort; she led the young lads to consider a neat pair of corduroys and a white smock far more becoming and respectable, than any of the faded finery to be picked up cheap at the second-hand shop in the market town, whilst the girl who behaved herself best at church and school on Sunday, was pretty sure to receive from her hands a gingerbread cake, or a stick of sweety on Monday.

One only child had Deborah Wilkinson, a bright-looking girl, who stood at the head of the first class of the "National School," and who, though she had but just turned twelve, could answer any reasonable question put to her, had mastered the puzzling "Rule of Three," and wrote so neat a hand, and was so ready at her figures, that her mother could even trust her to add up the accounts, and make out the weekly bills. Her stitching was like a row of goodly pearls, she could cut out and make

.both a shirt and a shift without the slightest assistance, and over her bib apron, suspended from her neck by a dark blue ribbon, appeared a genuine silver "Good Conduct Medal." Yet somehow or another, there was a certain toss of the head when anything happened to cross her will, and a self-satisfied kind of look when she was praised, which often caused her discerning governess an anxious thought; and little things (for oh! those little things are the most truthful of all tell-tales) at times even drew from her good parent a sigh; but then she was so industrious, so persevering and so thoroughly obedient, that her mother, who had ever set her a good example, and brought her up in the right way, chased away her fears, and hoped that with judicious advice, and wholesome restraint, "her Martha" would prove the solace and comfort of her declining years.

The clock had struck nine, the hour when Mrs. Wilkinson invariably retired from business. The front shutters were closed, the bell fastened to the bar, and "Pincher's" mat placed as usual in the little passage which separated the shop department from that of the Inn, when mother and daughter at a table covered with a coarse clean cloth, sat down to enjoy an evening meal, which consisted of home-made bread, skim-milk cheese, and cold tea well sweetened.

Pincher seemed the only uneasy one of the party; he did not exactly bark, but from time to time he sniffed cautiously round, and gave an occasional low growl, as if there was a something in the wind which prevented him from composing himself for sleep.

"Go on with your supper, child," observed Mrs. Wilkinson, as Martha laid down her knife, and seemed more than half inclined to go and see what was the matter. "I put up the shutters, and bolted the door myself, so I know it's all right."

"Yes, but mother, there are those gipsies down in the dell!"

"Well, my dear, and what of them ?"

"They might do us some mischief, mother."

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O, if that's all, never fear. Leave the poor creatures alone, my dear, and they won't interfere with us."