"How willingly, if I knew how, would I have made the pretty creature sensible that the old dry tree' was destined to be uprooted, and that my only object was to save her nestlings from impending destruction. I wished her to be aware that by choosing a retreat more secure, however ineligible to her own seeming, she would have cause to bless the restraining hand which thwarted her short-sighted arrangements.

"Thus graciously intentioned are the disappointments sent us by Providence. The sheltering gourd is blighted, the dumb creature rebukes our rash enterprise, the-in short it matters little for the channel which conveys it, provided the lesson is salutary.

"During our early childhood we are guarded from harm by the more visible intervention of others. The fond mother screens her infant, as the apple of her eye, from every grain of dust, every ray of strong light; and when, in advancing years, it would put forth the little heedless hand to pluck a nettle or to grasp a viper she interposes to avert the danger.

"In riper years, when haply her restraining influence is less recognised, she can still lift the monitory voice, still warn her heedless one of the thorn, and the sting which lurks in every pursuit, not having for its motive the love of GoD, and for its end the good of man. And when at length parental care and authority are cancelled by death, God takes us under His more visible and immediate guardianship; health and fortune fail; worldly friendships are withdrawn; the idol-wife, child, lover, is snatched away, till, like my little porch-wren, we find reason to confess that here we have no abiding city.'

"My simple parable is, however, susceptible of a more cheering commentary; for as the bird by building in the snug nook I had, in my mind, assigned her, might have reared her brood in safety and quiet; so we, having meekly yielded up those cherished possessions which it seemed good to a wise and merciful Providence to withdraw, may nevertheless find fellowship and comfort in what remains to us during the years, more or less, it is His pleasure we shall continue on earth."

CONVERSATIONS ON ENGLISH CHURCH HISTORY.

In one of those beautiful and fertile valleys which one so frequently lights on in Cornwall, with its transparent stream of water winding along and causing just sufficient noise to add to the tranquillizing effect of the scene upon the mind, dwelt a poor widow named Mary Milton. The cottage in which she lived was situated quite at the foot of the hill and was separated from the rivulet which

ran through the valley only by a small flower-garden in front. Behind the cottage the hill rose suddenly, and with the exception of a plot of ground used for growing vegetables was thickly covered with trees. A narrow pathway led from the cottage by the side of the water to an old stone bridge. About a mile from this up a steep circuitous ascent which looked more like the channel of some mountain torrent than a road for civilized people to walk-much less ride over, was situated what the Cornish people call the church town. This is the common name in Cornwall for the locality of every church, even where there is probably not more than one or two cottages near it. The church-town, however, near widow Milton's cottage, contained a number of small houses and one tolerably large one, which was separated from the road by a low stone hedge surmounted by a ridge of thick-set thorns. This was the parsonage house and within two minutes walk of it was the old church itself, and a fine old church it was. The high turreted square tower, with its four pinnacles, rose nobly above the ancient trees which grew in the church-yard around it.

For many long years they had grown up beside it and some were fast going to decay. They had cast their leaves on graves of old and young which they had long o'ershadowed, their period of decay had also arrived, and for the last time many of them had taught wankind the solemn lesson, "We all do fade as a leaf." The tall strong tower seemed to preach a different lesson from the scenes of death and decay which surrounded it. It spoke of something firm and enduring, and with its four spires pointed to where we were to seek it. The Christians' faith and hope and love it seemed to say should be well built, strong and enduring; their graces well fortified against the storms and dangers of the world, prepared for the worst, and in the midst of all looking steadfastly towards heaven. “ What though your bodies fade like these withered leaves and decay like your brethren in their quiet graves, your souls will still live on, and the graces which by God's assistance you have sown in them on earth, you shall reap in joy hereafter."

Trust not in things ever flowing,

Who on shifting sand stands sure?
Earthly things are ever going,

Heavenly things for aye endure.

Thus might one have put words to the music of those blessed bells which, with their peculiar chime, called together the inhabitants of this quiet valley to unite in adoring and praising their Creator and Redeemer. The church itself consisted of two aisles, separated by five pointed arches supported by granite pillars. A beautifully carved screen had once separated the chancel from the rest of the church, but this had been taken down and broken to pieces

by the authority of some ignorant churchwarden. The oak seats also, with their richly carved ends had been supplanted by large unsightly deal boxes called pews. A few of the old seats remained at the west end of the church, (the part in these days appropriated to the poor) which served to show how the church had once been seated, when rich and poor met together and without distinction knelt before their common FATHER in heaven.

Mary Milton, who was the most consistent church-woman in the parish, was, as I have said, a poor widow, but her education had been far above the position which she now seemed to occupy. Her husband, who was a country surgeon, had been dead some years at the time we introduce her to our readers. From his hardly earned income he had managed to keep up an insurance which at his death gave his widow £30 a year. Her children, three in number, were all good looking and clever, though they differed much in disposition. To train these up as true and living members of CHRIST'S mystical body-the Church, was her unceasing effort, and frequent and earnest were her prayers that they might ever remain united to their SAVIOUR in that wonderful and mysterious union to which in Holy Baptism they had been admitted. The parish priest, Mr. Trevilly, was, as may be supposed, deeply interested in all that concerned widow Milton and her family. Her children were educated in the village school which was entirely under his control, and he would frequently ask some of the more advanced children to come to the parsonage of an evening that he might give them both instruction and amusement. So fond was he of children that it was rather a pleasure than a trouble to him thus to gather around him the beloved lambs of his flock and feed their souls with saving truth and wholesome instruction. In return for his care, all the well disposed village children became so attached to him, that a bright smile would light up their joyous faces whenever he entered the school, and though he seemed so good they looked up to him with a sort of fear, which so far from casting out, seemed only to increase their love for him.

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My dear mother," exclaimed Charles Milton, (a fine healthy looking boy about twelve years of age, who with his brother Edward and sister Alice had just returned from school) "what do you think Mr. Trevilly has proposed to Ned and me and some of the other boys of the first class?"

"Indeed, my dear, I cannot tell; I only know it is something that pleases you from the way you ask me."

"Yes, it does indeed; but just make a guess."

"Well then, perhaps he has asked you to spend the evening with him some day this week, that he may see how you are getting on, and whether you quite understand your catechism." "Burning, you are burning, mother."

"Mother burning, where?" cried little Alice in some alarm.

"Oh, that's my fun," said Charles, laughing, "I only meant that mother had made a very good guess; but she has not quite hit it."

"Well then, Charley, I believe I must give it up, as you say sometimes, when you can't find out the answer to a riddle.”

'I think," said Edward, mother might guess a long time before she exactly hit it, as you say, Charley."

"Yes, I think so too. Well then, Mr. Trevilly has asked Neddy and me, and Bob Anderson, and Bill Collings, and George Stevens, to go to the parsonage every Wednesday and Friday, at six o'clock in the evening, that he may give us instruction in the history of the Church; and now, mother, all depends on you."

"All depends on me! what do you mean, my dear?"

"Oh, he said he was not sure whether you would like us to be absent from home so often in the evenings, as that was almost the only part of the day that you had us with you."

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Certainly, I shall be sorry so often to be deprived of the society of my boys, but I should be still more sorry for them to lose any valuable instruction their Priest may think good for them. My only anxiety is about your having so far to come home in the dark during the winter months."

"You need be under no alarm about that, my dear mother," said Edward, "for Mr. Trevilly says, that as we are some distance from the parsonage, his servant man shall see us home when there is no moonlight."

"How very kind and considerate of Mr. Trevilly," said Mrs. Milton, "thus to anticipate a mother's anxiety. We never can be sufficiently thankful to God for raising up so good and kind a friend to comfort and instruct us.'

"Indeed," said Edward, "we all love him very very much, he treats us more like children of his own than children of a poor widow."

"Yes; he seems more practically than I ever yet saw," said Mrs. Milton, "to realize that great truth, that all the members of CHRIST'S Church are also members one of another."

"He often speaks to us about this," said Edward, "and tells us that since God has taken us all into His family we ought to love each other like brothers and sisters,-just like Charley, Alice, and I love each other, and that if we quarrel and fight and get to dislike and hate one another, GOD will turn us out of His family. It would be a very dreadful thing to be turned out of God's family, would it not, my dear mother?"

"Very, very dreadful, my dear, because if we were to die out of GOD's family we should not go to heaven."

"That is exactly what Mr. Trevilly tells us," said Edward, “ He

taught to-day that we must live and die in CHRIST, if we would go to heaven, and that we could not live in Him if we hated one another."

"No; we cannot love God and hate His members. God is love, and the greatest mark we can give of our being His children is to love one another." "

"I think Mr. Trevilly must be very good," said Alice, “he seems to love everybody and especially children."

"And if loving him would make us all good," added Charles, "I think we should be the best set of children in the world."

"Mr. Trevilly," continued Mrs. Milton, "possesses Christian charity in a very high degree, and I earnestly pray that my dear children, from frequent communion with him, may learn something of the same spirit. When does he wish you to begin your evening visit?"

"Next Wednesday, at six o'clock," said Charles. "Well, Alice, what are you looking so downcast about?"

"Why, I am not asked to go with you, and I am sure I should like to hear about all the good men who have lived and died in God's family."

"Would you then wish to leave me quite alone so often?" said Mrs. Milton.

A tear glistened in Alice's eye as she looked up in her mother's face. "Oh, no! forgive me, my dear mother, I did not think of that at the moment. I would rather, a great deal rather remain at home with you, for though I should like to hear all about the Church, I should not like to leave you so often."

Mrs. Milton put her arm round the waist of her little girl and kissed her fondly as she said, "I believe you, my dear, and I hope Charles and Edward will remember enough to tell you what Mr. Trevilly teaches them." "Oh yes," exclaimed both children in a breath, "we will be sure to remember all the most remarkable things, and mother knows a good deal about the history of the Church, so she can correct us if we do not exactly remember!"

"Well, now out with you for a good play," said Mrs. Milton, "and when you have exercised your little limbs a bit, we will have some tea, and then we will all sit round the fire and I will read something to you."

"Thank you, thank you ;" and away scampered the children up and down the garden walks, in and out the garden gate, until they got quite tired and out of breath. We will now bid them good bye for a time, to take their welcome meal, and enjoy their quiet evening.

G. R. P.