was my chicken, and I will never forgive her,” said Archie, doggedly. “Never forgive her then, Archie, I pity you when you say to-night, ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us,’ asking God to forgive the sins and shortcomings of this day, only so far as you have forgiven the sins and shortcomings of others. So you have had no need of forgiveness to-day.” “No need of forgiveness!”—the poor child hid his face in his hands and “wept bitterly,” thinking of that terrible passion under the bed, of which none but God knew. Of that he was glad, for somehow it was easier to tell Him he was sorry than it would be to make the same confession to any one else. ut would he be forgiven He had been so wicked all this time, thinking without one effort to cast out the thought that he hated Mary Head, and would never forgive her. “I shouldn't like to have done it,” he sobbed, “and I’m sure she didn't. I am very sorry for her, and I do forgive her— yes, I do ; and, please God, forgive me for saying I never would.” Tears were falling now, but they were different to those he had shed that morning. He was making his peace with God, so we must leave him to himself.

Half-an-hour after this Archie walked into the dining-room, Scotch cap in hand.

“Mother,” said he, “one of the little chickens is dead; it was all an accident. May I dig a grave for it in the orchard 7 and may I ask Mary Head to come and help us bury it this evening?”

“Yes,” was the answer to both these requests, but not before Maudie and her mother had exclaimed,—

“One of the chickens dead! why, Archie, how did it happen?”

Archie .# give no explanation; he stood before his mother, squeezing his hands tightly together, he was so afraid he should cry. Happily she saw how matters stood—mothers have such a wonderful way of seeing—and let him run away as soon as possible. He went next door, and asked to see Miss Mary Head. The little girl

came down in a sad state of contrition. Her eyes were very red, so that Archie could guess how she had spent her morning. “Oh, Archie," she said, “I am so sorry!” “So am I," interrupted Archie; “I am very sorry I was so cross to you, and I don't much mind about the chicken now : it must have died at some time, you know —everything must die; and will you come and help us dig a grave for it in the orchard, and we'll bury it this evening " He spoke very fast, not being at all sure about tears, but there was no mistaking the thorough forgiveness shown in his words. Little Mary was quite touched, and almost consoled. That night the three children stood reverently round a little grave, dug under the cherry-tree. Reverently, I say; for Death was amongst them, even though it had only come to a chicken. The sun was setting in its usual gorgeous summer fashion, going down in all its glory, like a strong man, bearing his shining arrows to another land. Looking up from the grave, Archie saw it, and somehow these words came into his head, “Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.” Standing there, he bent down his head, and humbly and silently thanked God that not one feeling of anger remained in his heart. Yes, the sun was going down, sinking fast, but there was no weakness in its dying, which was, indeed, but the beginning of a new life. Its last beam was as brilliant as its first had been, and that last beam fell on the uncovered yellow head of little Archie, creating such a golden glory there that you might almost have fancied that the joyful angels in heaven had thrown a tiny crown down on the little sinner who had repented. And though it soon faded away, the happiness of having conquered himself did not fade out of Archie's heart, and he was not afraid to pray very earnestly that night“Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.” UTER.

“My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth.” (1 John, iii. 18.)

NELLIE'S HARVESTING.

OOR Nellie you would indeed have pitied her, could you have seen her one summer evening, many years ago, sitting on the doorstep of a miserable house in a long dark street. Over her head clothes -lines were stretched, with various garments hanging from them; the gutter was full of cabbage-leaves and potato-parings; dirty women leaned out of the upper windows to talk to each other across the street ; while dirtier children played and screamed and fought like wild animals among the mud and wretchedness. Very often Nellie's shrill voice might have been heard far above the other noises, as she kept order after her own fashion among her playfellows, but this time she was alone, with her brown hands clasped in each other and her face somewhat lifted; for between the clothes-lines and the rags that flapped from them, between the gloomy houses, was to be seen one little bit of God's grand sky. It was red with the sunset colours now, and Nellie knew that later, when they had faded, out of the grey would steal one beautiful star. She had never heard of angels, or perhaps she would have fancied it was one in the distance; now she only felt that she liked to watch for it, and to look at it when it came. Nellie had been born in this street, and always lived there. Her mother's manner was rough, but she had a kind heart, and was respectable for the place that was her home. She did not think there was any harm in swearing or lying, but i.; she knew was bad ; and she boasted to her neighbours that no one could taunt her with having taken a thing that was not her own, or drinking, or with beating her poor little girl until she nearly killed her, as many of the women near her would have done. But she could neither read nor write; no one had taught her about the Saviour, who came to die for

her that her sins might be forgiven, or of the heaven and hell beyond the grave. Living in a Christian land, she was almost as ignorant as the heathen in far-away countries who worship idols; the only difference being, that Jane Macarthy had no idol to worship. How she managed to live in the winter I cannot tell you, for I do not know; but in the summer she was out for two and three months at a time working at various farms, first with the haymaking and then the harvesting. Hitherto she had never taken Nellie with her; she was too young to walk so many miles as Mrs. Macarthy had to travel on foot, and would be in her way while looking for work: so Nellie had to remain in the street, in charge of an old cross woman, who took care of her with a lot of other children. How she hated those times, when the room which was her only shelter was even hotter than the street, and the long days went on with nothing, nothing, whatever to do! Her only pleasant hour was just in the evening, when, as I have said, from the doorstep you could see a corner of the sunset, and when it grew dark a star or two. When the mother first came back, however, all was pleasant; she was sure to bring Nellie a bunch of sweet country flowers, perhaps two or three fresh eggs, or something else nice: then, for a little while, they had money enough to live quite grandly, and Nellie heard long stories of the beautiful places her mother had worked in ; of the old farmhouses, with their flower-gardens all a-blaze with roses, fuschias, and geraniums; of the green fields, mile after mile of moving grass, with blue sky above them; of the harvest time and all its good luck, how the farmers were sure to be less grumbling then, and what fine chats she i. with the gleaners. To these stories Nellie always replied, “When may I go, too, mother? Do say!” And her mother always answered, “When you're old and strong, honey: ye'd be fairly killed with the walking now." But this year Nellie really was old enough to go; her twelfth birthday had past (though she did not know it) a month ago, and she was to start with her mother at four o'clock next morning, and spend the summer working in the country. She had lived upon the thoughts of it for the last week, and dreamed of it when she went to sleep at night. Now this was to be her last evening in that miserable street, she fancied it would never grow dark; and sat watching quite silently, while her mother talked to her neighbours in the next house.

Grove Lane, as Nellie's birthplace was called, was in the middle of London; nothing but streets were to be seen all around it: there was no getting out of them in anything short of a very long walk. When the little girl started with her mother, in the early morning about four o'clock, they were empty and quiet; none of the fine shops were open or the busy people about; a milkman or two drove by them in his light cart, or a gardener with his stock of vegetables for the markets. By-and-bye, when the sun began to get hot, they came to prettier-looking houses—villas, standing each in its garden, with flowering trees near them. §. looked at the flowergardens till her eyes ached, then up into the sky which now spread out wide and blue above them, and asked, “Is this the country, mother?” “No child "laughed the mother: “why, you are not out of London yet!” They walked on until the middle of the day, and then stopped to rest under the shade of a hedge by the roadside. Nellie was dreadfully tired, but did not say a word of it for fear she should be sent back to Grove Lane again; so she ate her bread and cheese and took a draught of water from a pump hard by ; then she curled herself up in the shade and was fast asleep in a minute. While she slept the fresh wind played over her, and a robin peeped through the hedge at her, with serious thoughts of building a nest in her rough hair. Nellie knew nothing about it, nor even that a shade of healthy colour was stealing up into her pale and (I am sorry to say) very dirty cheek.

It was late in the afternoon when her mother woke her, saying, “Now, lass, we must be moving on.” She felt quite refreshed by her nap, and walked along at first merrily, then o until evening. Just at sunset they left the last

of the rows of villas behind them, and turned from the high road into a less frequented path, which led up a low hill dotted with trees. Wearily little Nellie toiled after her mother; but when she reached the top, and saw what was spread out before her, it seemed to her that she had all her life been living in the dark, and only now learnt what light meant. For the sunset made the rich plain before them all golden; the breeze moved the trees and grass, as if for very happiness; and in the distance ran a shining silver streak, all that could be seen of the flow of a great river. “Now, child.” said Mrs. Macarthy, leaning herself and her bundle against a stile, “now you are in the country.” (To be continued.)

BUDDHA.

\k UDDHA is one of the idols - § which the people of China - N chiefly wo There is No a giant-sized figure of W. Buddna near a place called 2) Sing-song, which is thus o described by a mission- ** ary:— o o “After winding into the 23r o hills about a mile from the city walls, among rocks and trees, where numbers of squirrels were squabbling about their breakfast, we found the figure of Buddha in a huge cave, the front of which was faced with blocks of stone, so as to be like a building. The figure is of vast size, carved in relief on the face of the solid rock; the finger-nails, and finer parts of the dress, are made of plaster; the rest is all solid stone, and the whole figure, which is fifty feet high, is richly gilt. The ears of the image are enormously long, which the Chinese think is a point of beauty in all persons, yet a man standing on the shoulders of the image can only just touch the top of the ear. Pilgrims come from a great distance to worship this image, and the priests reap a golden harvest from the offerings of the foolish and ignorant countrymen.