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gardening, and soon the nursery grounds were most remunerative. The flowers were Dora's own special care. Hundreds of rare exotics and exquisite plants were just then in full bloom. Dora could tell the birthday of each, and she nodded first to one and then to another as she passed along, just as we do to an old friend. That afternoon she did not stay to chat with any of the beauties, but drew up quickly, and stretching to the fifth stand, took down a pot which contained a single little cowslip plant, such as we see every year by thousands in our fields. There were just three or four healthy leaves, and one stalk crested with a dozen little yellow heads, which hung down very shyly one behind the other, as if afraid that something would happen to them. Dora gently put her fingers underneath, lifted up the golden heads, and looked into their bright eyes. "Oh you little rogues!" she said, "you might have divided yourselves and grown on two stalks, and then I would willingly have given half away; now I am selfish enough to keep you all to myself, for you are a prize." And then her thoughts flew to the meadows of old England, and with half a sigh for the days that were past, she replaced her treasure, and went into the house to look after her father's tea and prepare for her visitors.

Meanwhile Andy had carried his rather lazy legs to The Cedars. A very pleasant home it was, occupied by an Englishman of the name of Lawrence. His wife and two daughters were the ladies of the neighbourhood, and a little inclined to patronize Dora since she had become a gardener; but she forgave more readily because they were good customers, and willingly she gave them advice about the management of their plants; and now and then they forgot their pride, and chatted merrily with

their old friend about England and its longremembered associations.

"I have never seen a cowslip since we came here," said Mary Lawrence one day to Dora ; " I would give much to see a cowslip."

"And I have tried in vain to rear one," she replied. "They will not grow here; but I am going to try again."

Dora did succeed, but she kept her secret, and now she was on the tip-toe of expectation. Andy returned with the answer that the ladies were engaged that evening, but would look in during the week. So, just a little disappointed, Dora returned to the greenhouse to hope that they would come in the morning and see her treasure in perfection. She soon forgot herself in a cheery song, when she was startled by the sound of a man's voice, and turning round found herself face to face with a rough navvy-looking fellow, who said, " May I make bold to ask, miss, if it's you as has got the cowslip 1"

Dora looked at him for a moment, scarcely understanding what he meant, and then she brightly answered,—

"Yes, my good -fellow; is it you who would like to see it 1"

"I should that, miss, if I may be so bold."

He was a big fellow, with a kind but lawless look, and Dora was both interested and amused with him. What could he want with the cowslip? Gladly she fetched the plant. At first he looked at it without speaking, and then rather tremulously he said, " Might I smell it, miss?" and stooping his big head down to the cowslip, he burst into tears. "Oh, miss, yer like to forgive me," he sobbed out; "but it smells so of the old home, and it minds me of my little sister Bell, and the days I used to gather cowslips for her and make 'em into balls. O Bell! Bell! if only those days could come o'er again!" And then for some minutes he wept bitterly.

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"Tell me all about it," said Dora; "I should like to know."

It was a simple story of peasant life. A headstrong lad, he had quarrelled with his father and run away to sea. Not caring for that occupation, he had wandered about in America, getting work here and there, often half famished and penniless. For the last month he had been working at The Cedars, and was near the young ladies in the garden when Dora's note arrived. He heard all the talk about the cowslip. It stirred memories of other days, and he made up his mind when work was done to walk over and ask if he might just have a look at the flower.

"But," said Jack Brown," I didn't think, miss, it would have knocked me over so."

"And how long is it since you left home, Jack 1" said Dora.

"Ten years, miss, come the fall."

"And when did you last hear from them 1 "

"O miss, I've never heard—I've never written, for the matter of that. At first it nearly broke my heart to think how mother and Bell would miss me. Bell was a little lass and lame, and I used to carry her about in the fields and get flowers for her. Ay, how she did love cowslips!" And again the tears were brushed away with the back of his hard rough hand.

"And you have never once written home all these ten long years, Jack 1 I am ashamed of my countryman. But perhaps you can't write 1"

"Yes, miss, I can write fast enough, for we weren't exactly poor folks ; but somehow I was vexed with my father for ever so long, and then when I began to see that I was most in fault, I let the time go by, and for more than two years I haven't thoughtmuchabout him. HeariDgtheyoung misses talk about your cowslip brought all

back again, and I kind of longed so to look at one that I made bold to come."

All this time Jack held the plant in his hands, sometimes smelling, sometimes caressing it; now and then saying, "Bonnie thing, bonnie thing."

Suddenly Dora said, "Jack Brown, I will make a bargain with you :—Go back, write a letter to your sister Bell, and then come to-morrow evening and I will give you the cowslip flower to send home, and you can tell them it is the first you have seen grown in Canada."

It was a great gift, this simple spray of cowslip, but the fellow comprehended it fully. For the moment there was a big struggle, then the better nature prevailed, and the man promised. The following evening Jack returned with a long letter, closely though somewhat roughly written. "It took me nearly all night to write it, miss, for I've told Bell everything." The golden head was safely fastened within, and from that day Dora and Jack became fast friends. Often when his hard day's work was over he would go to the nursery and help his "dear miss" to water her plants, etc. Three months after Jack Brown received an answer to his letter. It was full of love to the wanderer, and longings for his return home. "Father's getting an old man, Jack, and mother would like to set eyes on you before she dies. Do, do come home!"

"And you will go, Jack?" said Dora; "they need your help on the little farm."

So it was all settled, and in a few months Jack started for old England.

"To think that a flower did it all!" said Jack to Dora, on bidding her good-bye.

"No," Dora replied; "I think it was God who spoke to you himself."

"Well, miss, as you like; maybe it was God—and you—and the cowslip."

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0 AUNTIE, tell me a story about when you were a little girl. Those stories seem more real than any others." So taking her on my lap, I commenced :—

"Once upon a time, when I was a little girl, I knew another little girl who was sick and very poor, and had not any nice things to eat nor pretty things to amuse her. My sister and I were very sorry for her, and determined to save all our money to buy her some of the many nice thing? she needed.

"One day, after we had saved quite a little sum of money, our mamma told us to get our little pails; and she said if we picked enough blackberries to fill them by the time she called us in to set the teatable, she would give us each sixpence to put with the rest of the money we had saved. We were overjoyed, and ran to get our bonnets and pails. For awhile we picked away merrily enough; for to add to our pleasure we expected the rector to tea, and blackberries were his favourite fruit.

"Finally, Mabel proposed to see which could fill her pail first. I readily agreed. Our chatter ceased, as each one of us was so eager to do our work quickly. In a few minutes I saw a bush loaded with berries. Thinking to fill my pail more quickly, I ran over to it; but Mabel had seen it also, and came running with the same idea. Each of us claimed it, and neither would let the other pick from it.

"All the naughty things we said I could never repeat. When mamma called us into the house, instead of the two little girls, with bright, sparkling fyes, running to see which should be the first to reach her, there came two little girls with downcast eyes

and flushed cheeks, walking slowly toward her.

"Of course she saw at once that something was the matter, and when she looked at the pails only half filled with berries, she suspected what it was; so she said to us that she would have to buy some berries with the money instead of giving it to us. So she sent me out with it, while Mabel set the table A little while after I came home with the berries the rector arrived. He talked awhile in a pleasant way. At any other time we would have been very much pleased; but now both of us were strangely silent, so much so that he noticed it, and asked what was the matter with his little girls. He did not receive an answer, for both of us were beginning to feel ashamed of ourselves.

"After the rector left and the dishes were washed and put away, mamma proposed that we should go out for a walk, as it was still early; so we went up to the room which we shared, to get ready. We walked slowly; for Mabel was thinking of the text she had repeated to her mamma that morning — it was, 'Let not the sun go down upon your wrath ;' and I was thinking of the verse,' Love one another,' which had been mine.

"The result of these thoughts was, that when we reached our room I ran up to Mabel, and throwing my arms around her neck, said I was very sorry for what had passed, and would like to make friends if Mabel would; and Mabel was only too glad to do so.

"When we ran down to mamma with our hats on, there was such a change in our faces that mamma saw at once we were friends again; and she was very glad when 108

we told her about it, and asked if there was not something we could do to earn the money for the little girL When she saw how sorry we were, she told us she had some towels we might hem the next afternoon. This we did, though we both disliked sewing, and it took all our play

time; but when mamma paid us the money, we felt fully repaid for all our trouble."

"Is that all, auntie?" said my little niece, as I paused; and when I said "Yes, dear," she jumped off my lap, and we went into the house.

TWO miles from Edinburgh, the beautiful capital of Scotland, there is a favourite bathing-place on the shores of the Firth of Forth.

On a summer evening (August 17, 1882) two lads—one seventeen years of age, the other sixteen—were bathing there, when they saw two other boys at a little distance struggling in the water. These boys had been carried beyond their depth by the ebbing tide, and could not swim against the current.

A cry came from one of them for help, and at once the two lads sprang to the rescue. Plunging in from the shore, they swam out boldly to the two boys who were in danger.

As they did so, one of the lads said bravely to his companion, "I'll take the big one if you look after the little one."

The noble fellow thought he was stronger than his friend, and better able to save the older of the two buys who were in danger.

Away he swam on his errand of mercy. As soon as he reached the drowning boy, the latter at once flung his arms round his neck.

The brave lad who had come to save him was in a moment rendered helpless, and both sank in the water and were drowned.

It was a gallant act, which deserves to be put on record among the deeds of brave boys.

The name of the lad who thus sacrificed his life in trying to save another was James Munro.

His companion, whose name is James Gibbons, had in the meantime bravely done his work. He swam round the other boy, and told him to put his hand on his shoulder.

The boy did so, but in his fear he clutched it so severely as to strike his nails into his rescuer's skin.

Gibbons succeeded in reaching the shore. He had saved the boy; but great was his sorrow on finding that his friend and companion Munro had met with a watery grave.

If ever a medal for brave conduct was deserved it certainly was in the present case.

Both Munro and Gibbons were apprentices in Messrs. T. Nelson & Sons' Works, in which the Children's Paper is printed.