His reply was, "Take me once again to the altar where I painted my last picture."

The monk could not deny him this earnest request. When midnight came, and all the other monks were sound asleep, this kind man went to Surlin's cell and led him through the passage ways to the chapel. He left him stand. ing before the altar, and told him that he would come for him at early dawn. But when morning came the monk awoke too late to lead Surlin out and back again to his cell. So he had barely time to lead him behind the altar and conceal him in the deep wooden seat which had stood there for many years. The seat was more like a great chest than anything else. The lid would come up; and it was large enough for several men to be hidden in it. It had holes around it, too, so that any one who might be inside of it could easily get his breath. All day long the old painter lay there, and heard the monks say mass. When midnight came again, his good friend approached his place of concealment and led him back to his gloomy cell. But Surlin very carefully studied the way by which he was led to the chapel. And every night he would feel his way there and stand for hours. If he heard a noise at any time he would go back and hide himself in the altar seat.

I ought to have said before, that after the monks had put his eyes out, they left their sharp knife upon his bed. His first impulse was to put himself to death with it; but he was a good man, and felt that God knew when it was best for him to die. He kept the knife carefully, thinking that he might yet find some use for it. One day when he lay concealed in the wooden seat, the thought occurred to him to carve something on its inner sides. He did so; and whenever he lay there he worked quietly away at his wooden picture.

Now what do you think he carved? It was the history of all his misfortunes. He began with a representation of his

completion of the altar-piece; he then described the monks in the act of putting out his eyes; and he thus went from step to step through his long suffering until he came down to the present period of his life. It was a beautiful piece of carving. It far exceeded his painting on the chapel wall; and it was wonderful that he could do it without the aid of his eyes. He spent a number of years at this great work, and almost forgot his misery while he did it. He often heard the monks and their distinguished visitors praise his picture. But they thought he was all the time in his cell. He took care to be there always whenever his meals were brought him.

The wood-carving was all done. It covered the four sides of the interior of the old seat. He now waited patiently for death to come. But he did not have to wait long. On the third day after he had completed his wooden picture he died. The monks felt easier then. They said no mass over his old body, but quietly buried him. They now said, "Our sin I will never be found out."

The fame of George Surlin's last picture in the cloister of Bleaube uren had now gone throughout the country, and many a nobleman and artist came to look at it. Years passed on, and still the throng of visitors was great.

It happened one day that an unknown traveller visited the cloister. Nothing in the chapel escaped his attention. He was delighted with Surlin's painting. He would stand before it, and then walk about and return again to it and admire it afresh. He went behind the altar and sat down on the old dusty, high-backed seat. His right hand rested beside him but he touched something round and rough.

He looked at it and found it to be a beautiful carved little rose. This excited his attention. He arose and examined it. He found that he had been sitting on what was really a long walnut chest. The lid was like a seat, but it had hinges to it. He slowly raised

it up and saw a smooth knife lying on the bottom of it. Its fine blade was almost worn out. The stranger then caught a glimpse of the exquisite carving on the four sides of the altar seat. He requested the two trembling monks who were with him to open the window near by. They hesitated, but finally did it. They were overcome with fear. They trembled from head to foot, and whispered to each other, "This is George Surlin's work. He has come to life to condemn us for our crime!"

The stranger carefully examined the whole of the beautiful carving. He had never seen anything like it. The fears

and evident guilt of the monks excited his attention. He felt that the picture in the chest was a great mystery. He resolved to find it out. He finished his examination, came to his conclusion, and hastily departed.

In two weeks he returned to the cloister with a great many attendants. He was accompanied by the judges of the country. They tried the monks for their crime, and punished them with severe penalties. As a concluding sentence on them for their sin, it was ordered that the seat should be taken apart, and the fine wood carving placed along the chapel wall of the cloister. And if you were to visit Blaubeuren to-day, you would find it to be the finest work that George Surlin ever accomplished.

VAPRAPAAR AAPAAPAAPAAPAAPAAPAAPAAPAAPAAPAAP

BE SURE YOUR SIN WILL FIND YOU OUT.
NUMBERS XXXII. 23.

ITUATED onthe eastern bank of the Calabar river, of which we have spoken in our first article, is Duke's Town. It was formerly a considerable slave mart. It stands on elevated ground, and the houses are mostly built of clay. The king's palace however, of which we furnish an engraving, is a much more magnificent affair, being of European materials and construction. A traveller, who recently visited Duke's Town, says of it, "We came to the king's new and really fine house in Duke's Town, on the Calabar river, constructed for him in Liverpool. It was framed of wood covered and roofed with galvanized iron plates and handsomely furnished. It looks better in the accompanying picture, however, than as it appeared shut in by mean native houses, some of them even built up against it."

10

KITTY'S TEMPER.

PART II.

OTHER," said Kitty, as they rode homeward, "what makes Mrs. Fay so queer? I don't see how Ellen can love her so, and be so good to her; I couldn't do anything for anybody who was so very cross."

"My daughter, we must not do good

deeds only when we expect to be rewarded for them. Ellen is only repaying

a debt of gratitude she owes to her mother for all the care that mother took of her in her childhood. It is no task to Ellen-it is a pleasure, How happy and cheerful she looks when she tries to forget all her troubles! I wish my little girl would only look half so happy, and yet she has not the real troubles that poor Ellen has."

Kitty was just beginning to see her faults; Ellen's disposi tion, in marked contrast to her own, had made Kitty long to be like her, and wonder why she was not. "I want to be good, Mother; I'd like to be as good as Ellen; but just when I mean to try my best, something comes up in my heart and makes me feel so ugly."

The first indication of a change of heart is the readiness to acknowledge our faults, and a desire to overcome them. "You must strive to look on the bright side of things, not imagine people don't love you-one cannot help loving little children. Ellen never thinks of herself, and that is the secret of her happiness. She is always considering how she may benefit others. It is a merry heart that maketh a cheerful countenance,' my dear child, and you must not have wrinkles on your brow that you will wish to smooth away when you are older, but cannot. We all love you very much; but we are quick to see faults in those we truly love, and