IIer eyes fell on her roughened hands,

On working-dress so patched and old; Scarce might she hope to bring her pence Though others yielded store of gold.

Nor needful wisdom could she claim
The heart of little child to teach;
She had herself the need to learn,

Nor large her power of ready speech.

While when the promise there was given,
To soothe the sick, to cheer the sad,
She doubted much if word of hers
Had skill to make another glad.

Thus shrinking back in self-mistrust,
One slow, sad glance she cast around
Amid such wealth of Christian work
Could no small share for her be found?

A sudden thought lit up her face,
A sudden impulse fired her eye,
And from that lowly, loving heart

The quick, glad thanks arose on high.
While in the room a voice was heard
Speaking in accents soft and low:
"Great things for Christ I may not try
As ye who worthier gift can show;

"But here, where oft in His dear name
Shall come the tread of many feet,
Much need must be of busy hands
To keep the building clean and sweet.

"And I am used to homely toil-
Such toil as God appoints the poor,
Then will ye grant my one request,
That, free of charge, I scrub the floor?"

Ah! lips might scorn that humble plea,
Or pass it by in thoughtless mirth;
But who shall say what rank it takes
Where motive stands as test of worth?

For men with this world's market-price
May stamp the deeds of lowly love,
Not knowing yet what strange reverse
Their judgments find in Heaven above.

But once a widow's paltry mite
Beyond far richer gifts was prized;
Its value rated at a worth

No earthly mint has recognised.

And still beside the treasury

That same clear, watchful eye we find,
Weighing each gift as great or small
By those amounts still left behind.

Thus more the praise His lips bestow
On one mean talent nobly used,
Than where with loftier powers combined,
Much else by waste is left abused.

While dear to Him beyond all words
Each offering made of glad free-will;
For men may buy the outward deed,
But love springs forth unpurchased still.

Ah, then methinks that evening hour

Well pleased the Master's eye looked down,
Each willing heart to own and bless,
And with His smile its efforts crown.

But still amid that busy throng,

Prepared for service bold and rare,
Not one, perchance, gained higher praise
Than she, the lowliest worker there.

E. C. A.

残

Adèle.

DÈLE was the only child of rich parents who lived in

the South of France. Her mother died after a

lingering illness when Adèle was twelve years old,

and the little girl was much thrown upon the care of an indulgent grandmother. Her father, fearing lest she should be spoilt by mistaken kindness, sent her for a short time to school, but her health becoming delicate, he placed his daughter under the kind oversight and instruction of a Christian friend, who undertook the task of training the motherless child under a sense of its serious responsibility.

This friend was Christine Alsop, then Majolier, of whom a memoir has recently been published, and it is from her journal that the following particulars of her interesting pupil have been taken. At first there was considerable difficulty arising from the natural faults of character which result from the unrenewed heart, but by degrees Divine grace gained an ascendancy; Adèle felt herself a lost sinner and rejoiced in the fulness of salvation through Jesus Christ. "How happy it was for me," she once remarked to her kind friend, "that you were not discouraged when I was so vexed at your speaking so seriously to me. I appeared not to mind. what you said at the time, but I thought of it afterwards." From the beginning of her intercourse with C. M. she was willingly persuaded to read the Bible daily, and the great truths of the Gospel thus impressed on her mind soon brought forth fruit in her. She pursued her studies with more zeal, and endeavoured to make herself agreeable to those about her. "I no longer take pleasure," she said, "in speaking ill of any one, and I do not feel disposed to look at things in the same light as I did before." Notwithstanding these signs of the work of the Holy Spirit in her heart, she had again and again to lament her proneness to yield to her naturally impetuous temper, inquiring sometimes earnestly of her friend if she noticed any improvement, adding, "I ask you that you may encourage me to persevere." About this time she requested to be taken to her mother's tomb. She wept much as she looked at the simple stone which marked it, and it was some time before she could speak. At last she said, "I feel now that I love my mother far more than I did when she died, and I should behave differently to her now. How happy should I be if I had her! but when I think of her, I do not know how it is, but I cannot weep for her, I feel so strong a persuasion that she is in Heaven and that she is happy."

As her own mind opened to the consolations of the Gospel, she ardently longed that her beloved father should share in the same joy. This was strikingly evinced during

a conversation she had with him respecting her religious education. It is the custom in France to treat this subject like any other branch of learning; it is usually undertaken about the age of fourteen or fifteen, and is left to the ministers, the parents frequently thinking that little or nothing is required of them; this may account for the great ignorance of young people before that period, and in many instances it is a very superficial affair. Adèle told her father that she considered religion as the most serious concern of our lives, and she hoped to undertake her religious instruction with a deep sense of its importance. On his expressing his regret that the matter with him had been got over very superficially, she immediately in a very earnest manner said, "But, papa, you can now learn; it is never too late to think on a subject of so much importance." Her health, which had for a time improved, began again to give way, and the dear child became impressed with the seriousness of the case. She longed to grow in grace, and to obtain the victory over her besetting sins, though she deeply felt that she needed Divine help, and that her unassisted efforts could do nothing. One day she said, "My dear friend, I do not wish you to flatter me, but tell me, do you not find me a little improved? I do hope I am. I, who was so disagreeable, so disobedient, so thoughtless, now I desire so much to give you pleasure. I love everybody; I love my father beyond expression; I love you like my mother. And this came all at once, I do not know how." Surely the "wind" that "bloweth where it listeth," even the breath of the Holy Spirit, was accomplishing this great change!

Her discrimination was remarkable for one so young. A lady who frequently visited them made the subject of religion an almost unvarying topic. Adèle remarked on one of these occasions after she had left, "I think that Madame speaks too much of God; she wearies me, and one does not like to be wearied with such a subject; she also appears to think herself better than other people.

In my opinion religion does not consist in so many words."

The remedies adopted for her restoration proved ineffectual, but she was patient and resigned, often saying, "It is the will of God." She now busied herself with preparing small tokens of remembrance for her friends and relatives. She had usually given her little presents on New Year's Day, but she said, "This year I must do it before." She was, however, well enough at this time to go out daily and to visit her friends. On returning from one of these visits, she said, "I cannot express what I felt on seeing Madame enter the room. I looked at her with her bracelets and her trinkets, and listened to her laughing and talking lightly, and I said to myself, 'Is this the way in which it is God's will that we should spend our lives? I hope I shall never be like that; I should not wish to be a woman of the world.'"

That these feelings were not merely the result of the thought of approaching death was clearly indicated by the following extract from a letter to one of her young friends, before she entertained any very serious apprehensions respecting her own health: "It is most necessary just now that we should endeavour to help each other, for we are arrived at an accountable age, and shall soon begin to count for something in the world. I cannot express, my dear Henriette, how anxious and fearful I feel in the prospect of the years that are coming. It is a very serious thing to exchange the protected and safe situations we have hitherto enjoyed for one of exposure and worldly pleasures, particularly with an unsteady disposition like mine. I am so afraid of being carried away by thoughts and feelings which I do not possess now, and which I hope I shall never have." After the appearance of some serious symptoms in her disease, though she was perfectly calm with regard to herself, yet she felt deeply on her father's account, saying, "I know I am very ill, and what will my poor father do alone? He has only me." She patiently submitted to the