Mary sang it; and then she went and put her little brother to bed, and heard him say his evening prayer.

There was no one else in the house to teach Johnnie to pray; for Johnnie's mother did not care about saying her own prayers, and she did nothing to help her children to love God, or to pray to Him; and Johnnie's father cared for nothing but earning his living, and did not trouble his mind whether his children loved God or not. He only cared to have his house neat and orderly, and his meals ready for him when he came home from work. He never read his Bible, or went to church or chapel. He seldom thought of God. His little daughter had read him her Sunday lesson about 'the bread of life-he always let her do so-but when Mary, full of the heavenly life which the words breathe, looked up into her father's face, she saw that they did not nourish him. His only desire was to labour "for the bread which perisheth." He had no thought "for the meat which endureth unto everlasting life." He did not "hunger and thirst after righteousness."

His little girl was different. She had learned to love her Bible dearly, and she longed to have her father do so too. A year or two ago, some of her little neighbours had asked her to go with them to their Sunday-school; and ever since then not only had Sunday been the happiest day in the week, but it had made all the other days happier than they had ever been before. When Johnnie grow old enough, she took him with her; for her father and mother, though they did not care to go themselves to church or chapel, did not mind their children going, so long as their work was not neglected. Mary had tried sometimes to get them to come to the services at the school-room, but they never would. As she grew older, she dearly loved to attend the services in the chapel to which her school belonged; and then, more than ever, she longed to get her parents to go too; but it was all in vain. They could not help being struck with the change in their little girl, since she had gone to school. She had always been a sweet goodtempered child; but since she had been at the Sunday-school, it seemed as if she had quite a new reason for every thing she did; a reason which made her try never to do wrong, and always to be kind and gentle, and obedient, and thoughtful for others. She had heard about the love of Jesus, and had learned to love Him with all her heart, and now her only wish was to do His will, and go about doing good in her own little home and amongst her companions, as He did in the wide world. Young as she was, the mind that was in Christ Jesus" was already formed in her.

"Lowly, loving, meek, and pure," she made her father's cottage so peaceful and happy, that he could not help thinking at last that

there must be some good in the Bible, which his little girl was so fond of, and which had made her such a different child. He began to listen more kindly to the many things she had to tell him when she came from school, and to take an interest in hearing her read the Bible.

This evening, when she had finished her work, she said, "Father, shall I read you my lesson for to-morrow? Perhaps you can help me to understand it." "If you like, Polly," said her father. He loved to hear her voice, always; and somehow the Bible words did sound very sweet and beautiful to him, as he listened to her. "It will be a nice ending of the week, father, won't it?" said Mary, as she settled herself comfortably by her father's side, and opened her Bible at the parable of the prodigal son. He listened in silence while Mary read the beautiful history of love and forgiveness; and when it was ended, he did not speak. He seemed lost in thought, and Mary went on quietly preparing for her happy Sunday.

"Good night, father," said Mary, when she had done. He folded his little girl in his arms and kissed her, but still he did not speak. His hand lay upon her Bible, and Mary did not like to take it away. She thought those beautiful loving words must make her father wish to read the Bible; so she left it with him, and went to bed; and earnestly she prayed to God that night to bless His word to her dear father, and make it the sweet joy to him that it was to her.

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Mary was up with the sun the next morning, to get every thing ready for her mother before breakfast, that she might be ready to go to school directly after. Her Sunday-school was the happiest place in the world to Mary. She loved her teacher very dearly. Ever since she had been under her care, and read the Bible with her, life had been quite a new thing to Mary. All things had become new.' Her duties, her trials, her sorrows, her temptations-every thing looked to her quite in a new light. At home she had had no one to help her. She had gone groping on in the dark there, without any one to show her "the way" or "the truth," or to point her to "the life" which was now her dearest joy.

Mary never went to school without coming to say good bye to her father. Her thoughts were full of the chapter she was going to read, this morning, and when he had kissed her, she said, "Father, would you not like to come to chapel to-day ?" "Not to-day, Polly," answered her father; and Mary thought he sounded sorry as he said So. 66 Some day soon, then, father dear? said she; "you know God sees us a long way off-when we first begin to wish to go to Him-you know we read so last night, father, did not we; and He

sees us now." As her father looked at her, he thought of some words which she had read to him about God giving his angels charge over his children; "for surely" he thought to himself, "if ever there was an angel on earth, it is thee, my Polly."

Johnnie and Mary were soon at their places in school; and happier than ever was that Sunday to Mary, because she hoped more than she had ever done before, that her father was beginning to care about the Bible.

Evening came, and Mary was seated at her usual place beside her father, telling him all about her Sunday. At first he used only to listen to her, because he loved to hear her talk; but by degrees he listened because he was interested in what she said. To-night she had a great deal to tell him about the sermon. It was about prayer, and especially the need of parents praying for their children. All parents could do this, the preacher said, and there was nothing they could do that would be so great a blessing to their children. "Father," said Mary, looking up at him, "Do you ever pray me?" Her father did not answer her. She put her arms round his neck, and said, "Don't you, father?"

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I don't know how," said her father.

for

'Oh, but Jesus will teach you," exclaimed she with joy. "Nobody need not know how to pray, for Jesus is always ready to teach them." Her father pressed her to his heart, and the first prayer that he had uttered since he was a child, broke from his lips.

thee, my darling!"

"God bless

More precious than rubies to Mary, were those few words, so often and so earnestly longed for. Her father had asked God's blessing on her! Only those who have yearned to hear such words from those dear to them, can tell the thankfulness that filled Mary's heart. She felt as if she had a real home on earth now, as well as in heaven. Her father on earth had prayed to her Father in heaven

for her.

"Will you sing me one of your hymns, Polly," asked her father; "I should like one very much before you go to bed."

"Oh yes," said Mary, "It is so nice to have a hymn before we go to bed."

Her father always loved to listen to her singing; and now the words she sang, as well as her young voice, sound very sweet to him.

Sometimes a light surprises
The Christian as he sings;
It is the Lord who rises
With healing on his wings.

When comforts are declining,
He grants the soul again
A season of clear shining,
To cheer it after rain.

In holy contemplation
We sweetly then pursue
The theme of God's salvation,
And find it ever new.

Set free from present sorrow,

We cheerfully can say,

E'en let the unknown morrow,
Bring with it what it may.

In

"The unknown morrow was bringing a great change with it. Her father little thought, as he listened to her dear voice, that night, that it was the last time he should ever hear her sing; and often in after years he thought of that sweet hymn, and felt its consolation. She took a violent cold; and though her father and mother did all that they could for her, and for awhile she seemed better, symptoms of consumption came on, and they began to fear that they must part with their dear child. Day by day she drooped and faded like a dying flower, till at last she had not the strength to leave her bed. Mary was very young to die; but she was not unprepared. her Sunday-school she had been led more and more earnestly to devote her heart to God. She had learned more and more each week, of his holy will; and had gained more and more strength to walk in the footsteps of her Saviour, and to love him with all her heart; and now He carried the young lamb in His bosom. Mary was not afraid to die; but there was one thought which made her sorrowful; and that was, having to leave her parents. Young as she was, and loving and dutiful to them as she had ever been, she saw that all was not right with them. They never read God's Holy Word; except when she read to them, it was never opened. They never went to any place of worship. Their whole object seemed to be, "What shall we eat, and what shall we drink, and wherewithel shall we be clothed." And Mary's heart had often sunk within her as she heard her Saviour's awful words, "What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" and "Whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is in heaven." The thought went like a sword unto her heart, "Do my father and my mother deny him ?" And now, as she lay upon her bed, and knew that her days were numbered, and that she must soon die, her heart was filled with thoughts and prayers for her parents. She hoped indeed that her father took

more pleasure in religion than he used to do; and yet it was only when she read to him, or told him what she had heard. When she was gone, would he ever read the Bible, or help Johnnie to pray? She often lay looking at him a long time, praying in her heart for help to speak to him; and sometimes when she could no longer read herself, she got her father to read the parts in the Bible which she loved best to hear. The peace that passeth understanding rested on her face while she listened to him.

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'Father," said she one day, "when I am gone, will not you and mother go to chapel with Johnnie? There will be no one else to take him, then." Her father could not answer her. He was not yet ready to give up his dearest treasure to God. He could not yet say, "Thy will be done." He had not loved God in the days of prosperity, and now in his affliction he was not ready to submit to His will. Very, very slowly, the light and the truth were coming into his mind. It is true that the comfort wherewith he comforted his dear child out of her beloved Bible, comforted himself too, unconsciously; but his trembling hopes could not yet rest in peace on those sweet words in which she lived; and when she spoke of her death in that calm, assured voice which left no room for hope, he leaned his head upon the bed, and wept aloud.

It had long been Mary's place to be her father's prop and comforter. She did not fail him now. She did not speak at first, but laid her hand upon his head, and so they remained in silence for a while; and then, as if her own soul was feeding on "the hidden manna," she repeated some of the precious words she had often got her father to read to her, but which seemed to come with a new light and life to him from her dying lips. "I am the resurrection, and the life. He that believeth on me, though he were dead, yet shall he live again. Believest thou this?" She stopped as if for an answer, but none came; and she went on, "If a man love me, my Father will love him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him." Oh, father, is not that enough? With that promise, can we not bear any thing?"

Seek, and ye shall

"Yes, dear, if we had that promise," said her father. "It is ready for us all, father," said Mary. find; knock, and it shall be opened to you."

Her father looked up from his grief into his little child's face, bright with faith, and hope, and love.

"Oh my Father, open to us now!" said the little girl, with her eyes lifted up to heaven, and her hands folded in prayer. Her lips still moved in silence, and a heavenly light shone in her face, and her father felt as if heaven was really opening to admit his angel child into its blest abodes.