Just as the huge iron gate of the cemetery grated on its hinges to admit them, a band of merry school-girls, released from study, came towards them. There is a magnet in sorrow which draws all hearts, either from motives of sympathy or curiosity. These children, who had never known a care, turned into the yard, and sought the open grave. As the old man who rode in the carriage assisted a woman up the gravel walk towards them, their ears were arrected by the most heart-rending sobs and groans. They looked round for the hearse which should bear in it the mother, brother, or husband of the humble mourner. But none came. The sexton, with the air and gait of a man doing his daily business, passed them rapidly, and led the way to the grave, with the tiny coffin under his arm. At the sight of it the sobbing mourner broke forth in new tones of anguish: "Oh no," she said to the old man against whom she leaned, "I cannot have it buried yet-let me keep it here a little longer." He whispered soothingly in her ear, and stooped to open the little coffin. Then the young mother knelt beside her dead, and covered the sweet marble face with tears and kisses. She smoothed down the sunny hair with her hand, and laid her own burning cheek upon the cold one of the baby for one moment. Then clasping her hands tightly, she gasped out "Bury it now." The man of death wanted no urging to the work. He lowered the mother's darling into its cold bed, and began to rattle the earth and stones upon it. Few hearts are so strong as to bear that cruel sound, and the stricken woman turning round to her aged friend, cried out, "Take me away now, before another stone falls on the coffin, or my heart will break."

Then the school-girls saw the face of the weeper, and wondered at her youth. "How strange," whispered a blooming maiden to her companion, "that she can make such ado-it is nothing but a baby."

"Nothing but a baby." Wait awhile, child of beauty; wait till a few years have deepened the bloom which is just beginning to tinge the cheek and lip; wait till the gentle heart of thine, which is now more than satisfied with quiet home-love, shall beat with a newer passion, in comparison with which all others will look dim; wait till thy heart, now all thine, shall be given to another's keeping, and beat only in unison with his; wait till a new claimant comes to share thy love with him, and to make thee a higher and a nobler being, as thou ministerest unto "one of these little ones," then wilt thou know, and not tlll then, the full depth of a mother's love, but not of her anguish. The day of darkness may yet come to thee, child of joy. Thou mayest, in days to come, weep beside a little open grave, and then turn away with the agony of the childless mother, and seek that silent chamber whose light thou hast just lain in the grave. But even then, shouldst thou look back to this day, and remember this little grave and thine own careless words beside it, thou couldst not fathom the depth of this mother's anguish, unless thou shouldst be alone and desolate as she is. If thou hast a father's bosom in which to hide thy tear-stained face, or a husband's arm to support thee in thy weakness, thou canst never, never know the throes of this youthful stranger, now widowed, orphaned, and childless. Hear her simple story, and never again let thy bounding heart whisper, or thy red lips utter, "Nothing but a baby."

Little does the cherished daughter of parents able and anxious to make her happy, realise when she goes forth to her own home, the full blessing which God grants when he gives to her a strong and noble man to be head over her. His is but a new love added to the rich store she possessed before; it is not, cannot be, her all of earthly joy. But alas for her-the pale young widow beside that tiny grave-she could tell a tale of sorrow which would blanch the rose on many a cheek, and raise the tear from

many an eye.

Leah Walton was from her cradle the child of poverty. While a school

girl, her widowed mother, worn out by that woman's curse-the needlesank into an untimely grave, leaving her to the pity of a humble neighbour. Leah was upright, industrious, and beautifully modest. Her personal charms were by no means small as she neared womanhood; but alas for the poor! the worm of covetousness began to feed upon her beauty, and to steal her bloom long before it reached its meridian. The unending "stitch, stitch, stitch," beneath the sun's smile and the midnight's pale lamp, soon told the work it was doing on her frail form. Then appeared, as if to snatch her from the certain doom of the ill-paid needlewoman, one who offered her a lowly home but a noble heart. Theirs was no tale of romance; he was not titled youth, who came to raise her from poverty to plenty and splendour. He was only a poor man, earning his bread by the sweat of his brow, asking her to be the wife of a poor man, and promising while God granted strength to his right arm, to provide for her wants and to shield her from danger. Well did he fulfil his promise, and for a few short months the gentle Leah enjoyed more of happiness and freedom from care than her brightest dreams had ever pictured. And then, not for his own ease or aggrandizement, but that he might make her more happy, he began to talk of the Gold Land, and to make plans for spending their two short years. His little effects were gathered together, his young wife amply provided for, and with a most reluctant assent from her, he, with a young friend, set sail for the American Ophir. But he never reached its shining shore. His brave young head found a coral pillow, and the strong arm on which so many hopes hung fell cold and powerless on a bed of golden sand.

Hope deferred made the young heart of Leah sick, long, long before the companion of his voyage sealed her melancholy fears. And did she, who knew what toil and poverty were-who had already drank their cup to the dregs in her childhood-did she fold her hands and sink powerless beneath this heavy stroke? No, no! She rose in all the strength God grants to feeble dependent woman. Then, in His providence, she becomes the protector and provider. A new object had already claimed her love and care, and she went forth as before, and sued as if she were a beggar -not for bread-but for work. Leah sought and found employment, and again her little fingers flew over one garment after another, as if the helpless little one before her had given them wings. Often in her little room would she steal a few moments to study the face of her baby-boy-to see his father's smile play around his lips and glance from his dark eye. Often then in the twilight would she enjoy the luxury-some rich mothers call it drudgery-of holding her infant in her arms, and carrying it, pressed close to her bosom, around the narrow room. Often would the tears of anguish fall upon its innocent face, while she at the same moment blessed God that he had not left her quite desolate-that he had given her this child to rear for him.

A woman who had long known the bitterness of poverty, in trying to condole with Leah on her husband's death, said, "Yes, poor thing, it is hard for you. If you only hadn't this baby to provide for, you'd get along nicely." "Oh, don't say so, my kind friend," replied Leah. "While God spares him I shall have the heart for any hardship. This gift is the one bright spot in all my sorrowful way."

And so it was. Months rolled by, and the young widow's eye never grew dim, nor her heart weary over her midnight task.

She drew bright pictures of coming days, when little Charley could talk and sympathise with her-when she could lean on his arm and trust in his love, as she had done on his father's. But not so had Heaven decreed. In all the book of Providence there was no thorny path marked out for his

tender foot-there was no hunger, no thirst, no sin to stain the record of Charley's future heritage. The orphan's God had prepared for this babe of poverty a mansion in his own house, where there is bread enough and to spare-water of life to slake his thirst-a white robe, and a restingplace in Jesus' bosom. Was that a sad doom? Surely not for Charley.

But how did the young heart, thus doubly bereaved, bear up beneath this last stroke which death had the power to make on her spirit? She mourned, and would not be comforted, because her child was not. She did not rebel against her Father's rod, but bowed before him, even while her soul was in bitterness. There was no heart in all the wide selfish world she could now call her own-had she not cause for anguish? The compassionate Saviour did not rebuke her for those tears, but with his own sweet accents whispered into her heart, "What thou knowest not now, thou shalt know hereafter."

The promise fell not without power on her heart, and she wondered, as she laid her head on her lonely pillow that night-Charley's first night in the grave-when that "hereafter" would come, which was to reveal unto her the "needs-be" for this sore chastisement. That day came and did not tarry. It proved that all was done in compassion. Her own last day was at hand, and then with what joyful confidence did she cry to the humble pitying neighbours who surrounded her bed, "Oh, what mercy, what loving-kindness in God, that he took Charley first! Who could have loved him as I have done in health? Who could have soothed him in death? I knew not then what the Lord was doing. Now the clouds and darkness are all removed, and I see that my Father is only tender and pitiful, even when we are in affliction under his hand." And the hearts of the poor who stood around Leah's bed were strengthened, and they felt that behind their dark cloud, as well as here, the sun was shining, and would one day be revealed.

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And did little Charley accomplish nothing by his brief life? True, he was nothing but a baby;" but he did cheer for months a lonely aching heart, and in death God made it his mission to justify before men his ways, and to brighten the mother's pathway down to his own silent bed.

Jesus, when in the flesh, esteemed "these little ones" very highly-he now carries them in his arms, and bears them in his bosom. Let not then the gay and the happy set lightly by them, or wonder that they occupy so deep a place in the hearts of those to whom God has given them. Let them never say, when they see a bereaved mother overwhelmed with anguish, "Why make such an ado? It is nothing but a baby."-New York Examiner.

A MOTHER'S FAITH.

Late in the Autumn of last year, a pale, quiet little girl, came to my school, requesting to be admitted, saying that she had recently come from the country, and now lived in the district where the school was situated. Her dress indicated poverty, but there was a delicate cleanliness in her person and garments that, to an experienced eye, betokened intelligent parents. Several months passed, and by her sweetness of disposition, her punctuality, and good scholarship, Ellen B- -had become very dear to me. I had often wished to learn something more of her circumstances, but the press of duties had postponed the fulfilment of my wishes from time to time.

She was absent from school on a Monday morning. During the afternoon session I sent a little girl to her house to inquire if she was ill. The messenger reported that Ellen was well, but that Mrs. Bwas sick in bed, and that Ellen could not come to school at present; and then, with

tears in her eyes and sudden grasp of my hand, the little girl said, "If you will only go and see them, I shall be so glad, for I know they are very poor. There was no fire in the room, and it made me shiver to stand there." I promised to go, while my heart smote me for my past negligence.

The early shades of a December night were settling upon the crowded streets, as I wended my way to this suffering family. The street was in a miserable locality, and the house was crowded with rough and vicious people. Upon reaching the door my light rap was answered by Ellen, who seized my hand, and almost ran with me to the opposite corner of the room, saying softly, when she reached the bed, "Mother wake up and see my teacher, who has come to see us."

A slender woman, apparently about thirty years of age, lay before me, but thin and pale. At the sound of her daughter's voice, a slight twitching of the eyelids was observable, and then the languid eyes opened,—those eyes that would so soon close for the last time upon all earthly things.

She gazed in my face a moment, and then faintly said, "God is good. He never utterly forsakes those who put their trust in him." The effort of uttering these words brought on a violent coughing fit, which, however, lasted but a few moments. After it was passed, I looked about the room." Besides the bed upon which the invalid lay, there was only a table and one chair in the room, and over the fire an empty candlestick. I asked Ellen if they had a candle. She replied that there was a little piece which she had saved, so that she could strike a light if her mother should be very bad in the night. I bade her light it, and keep up courage a little while, till I returned.

It was the work of half an hour to order a small supply of fuel and food, leave word for a physician to call, obtain a little wine, and return. But soon a flame was dancing in the grate; Ellen was making a supper, and the invalid was somewhat refreshed. When the physician arrived, he confirmed my worst fears. Mrs. B- saw it as well as I. "Then you think, sir, that I can "I fear it is so," he replied. "It is well," were her softly uttered words, and the closed eyes, the clasped hands, the sweet expression, told us that she was conversing with God, and almost face to face. The veil of flesh was nearly rent in twain.

last but a little longer ?"

Dr. M- -left only a cordial, and bade me watch carefully through the night. It was a happy privilege. Mrs. B's energies seemed to have revived. She did not sleep, and before morning she had told me her sad history. Not one complaint did she utter, not once did she betray any impatience; and when I inquired, as she finished her tale, if her courage had never faltered, if she could always put faith in God, her reply was, "Does he not provide for the ravens? Are not the hairs of our head numbered?" and then she continued, "I bless God that he has enabled me, through all my trials, to see his hand ever before me. Yes, ever with regard to Ellen, I trust in him. He will temper the wind to the shorn lamb, though my poor wisdom cannot see the way he will take."

was

Her husband, who had been a mechanic, had died, leaving only the household furniture. They had no friends to whom they could apply, and in their secluded home there was no work to be had, which Mrs. Bstrong enough to do. She sold her furniture, except what would furnish one little room, and came to the city, hoping to earn a living by doing fine sewing, at which she was very expert. But unacquainted with the city and with city customs, she had tried in vain to procure work of the kind she needed, and was obliged to take the very coarsest from one of the wholesale establishments. She could not earn enough for support without working almost all night, and her health failed at once. Piece by piece her furni

ture had been pawned, and till this very night no friendly face had crossed her threshold. She had kept Ellen at school as long as she dared, for the sake of the warmth of the school-room, and when I entered, she was praying that some one might be raised up to befriend her child.

Toward morning she fell into a short slumber, and on awakening rose in bed, and called in a clear tone to Ellen. The child sprang up, and in a moment was folded in her mother's arms. In a clear voice, the mother said, "Trust in God, my child, always: he will never forsake you ;" and fell back upon the pillow a corpse.

After the funeral was over, I took Ellen to stay with me a few days, till Dr. M- -and I could find a home for her; but she clung to me, and was so sweet and gentle in her grief, that I could not part with her. has been my child since that sad night.

She

REFORMATORY SCHOOLS.

From the whirl of politics, and the resultless labours of the Legislature, it is, indeed, a relief to turn to practical and social objects, and to the successful labours of voluntary benevolence. The meeting of the National Reformatory Union recently held at Bristol, must be regarded as inaugurating an era in the progress of that important movement. Since the first meetings at Birmingham, in 1851 and 1853, so much has been done, as well as said, in this country, that the public is now better informed on the subject of Juvenile Criminal Reformation; and, though the movement is yet in its infancy, we have also a satisfactory accumulation of home facts. These were presented by Lord Stanley in his opening speech at the Bristol meeting, with all the logical force, and measured freedom from exaggeration, which mark his Lordship's speeches generally, and which give them such deserved weight, and we shall make free use in this article of the information he has so admirably epitomized. Our colonies have done us more indirect service than could have been imagined, if their rejection of our criminals should direct our attention more earnestly than ever to the fountain of crime. This seems to have been the case. Reformatory efforts are not, it is true, quite of to-day: the subject has engaged the attention of philanthrophists, and schools have been in existence for half a century or more: but it is since the time when the colonies compelled us to keep our own criminals, that statesmen of all political creeds have felt that the proper mode of dealing with juvenile criminals is, in fact, the most important part of our criminal jurisprudence.

We do not undervalue Lord Brougham's representations on the importance of making the goal a Reformatory school for the adult, but we think it also demonstrated that the youthful criminals are, firstly, by far the most hopeful class to deal with, and, secondly, the most prolific cause of adult criminals. All is in favour of the age which has not acquired the rigidity of fixed habits, and which is, unquestionably, the age of comparative flexibility; nor is it less important that youthful crime has not affixed on the lad the stigma which the same act would inflict on the adult-hence it is much easier to find employment for lads from a Reformatory School than for ticket-of-leave convicts. When to this we add the startling fact, that one-fourth of the crime of the kingdom is committed by one-tenth of its population, and that that tenth part is the one which is under twenty years of age, it is apparent enough that our young criminals are the class demanding our first attention. Indeed, a very large proportion of our adult criminals began their course at the very age with which the Reformatory Schools propose to deal.