painful to them, yet served to assure them that yet a little, and their sweet child would be in the presence of that Jesus whom he loved, and enjoying the eternal Sabbath of which he had so often heard with delight. He had lain for some hours perfectly still, with his eyes shut, when suddenly he opened them, and, fixing them on his mother, said “Mamma, the happy day-come at last!" The effort had been too great; his eyes gradually closed, and with one long deep sigh, his spirit took its flight. The next Sunday his body was committed to the ground, beneath a beautiful spreading tree, and close beside the path which his little feet had trodden every Sabbath with such light and happy steps, when on his way to the house of God. And now, dear children, may all those of you who read this history be like little Charlie. How many children there are who, it is to be feared, feel very sorry when they think that Sunday is coming, because they will have to lay aside their toys, and not be allowed to play; but, oh, if you really love the Saviour, as the dear boy we have been speaking of did, you will love this day. Do you think you can be happy in heaven, where it is "always Sabbath," if you feel it a trouble to have that blessed day return once a week only! Pray to God that he will teach you to love his holy day, and to "call the Sabbath a delight." Ask him to wash you from your sins in the precious blood of Christ, the Lamb of God, and to put his Holy Spirit within you, that you may not only spend a happy day each Sunday that comes round on earth, but that you may spend an eternal Sabbath with Him in heaven when you die.Child's Companion. THE OLD MILLER'S PRAYER. SNUGLY surrounded by lofty hills, stood the little oldfashioned cottage and the rude mill; in one of which my good friend, the miller, lived, and in the other earned his daily bread. Both had been built and occupied by his father, and here contentedly and prosperously he had lived to a green old age, and then the old homestead and the business were transmitted to his son. Faithfully had the son adhered to both through life, which as his bent form, wrinkled face, and hoary locks attested, had been long and arduous. But neither were in as good a condition as formerly. Age and service had rendered the cottage ruinous, while competition had injured the business of the mill. Still the old man clung with strong affection to this the home of his childhood, for hallowed associations were connected with it which he could not, would not break. He loved the old grey hills in the bosom of which he had lived so long. Like giant champions rising around, they seemed to protect his quiet home. Down their rugged sides ran the rippling streams, which formed the rushing current by which the mill was turned. He was their child. Raised in their midst, and nourished by their very breath, he could not leave them now in his old age, and so notwith-, standing patrons had din inished to a scanty number, the old miller yet remained at the homestead, succes ding by hard toil in supplying his children with bread, and trusting in the Lord for help in the time of need. At the time when our story commences, there had been a long continued and most severe drought. Day after day the lurid sun arose in that peculiar smoky atmosphere so common at such times, scorching the arched earth, and withering vegetation with its fierce, unceasing heat. The corn-fields, last to suffer from such a cause, exhibited only brown stalks and stunted meagre ears. The price of all kinds of grain had risen to an unprecedented height. Cattle could hardly find sufficient food to support life.! The rivulets dried up, and the mill-stream, which had rushed in a wide torrent along its course, became a little scanty brook, which a child could cross. The old miller, deprived of his usual means of support, managed for a long time to obtain a supply of food; but when weck after week rolled by, and the sky remained unclouded, his heart heart sank within him, for starvation stared him in the face. One morning, after a sleepless night, in which he had not ceased to think of his troubles, he sat down with his family at the scantily furnished table to partake of the usual meal. Scanty, indeed, was its supply. One brown loaf only occupied the middle of the table, and as the family took their seats, the miller's wife remarked, that the bread before them was the last in the house "I have baked the last meal," she said, "and what we shall do for more I cannot tell." The miller's face was troubled, and for a moment it seemed as if the emotion within would burst audibly from the old man's lips, but with a powerful effort he restrained his feelings, and in a moment spoke in a calm voice "My dear wife, and you, my children, let us continue to trust in the Lord, who has hitherto never failed to supply our wants. Eat thankfully what we now have, nothing doubting that a kind Providence which supplies the sparrow's wants will not fail to bring us succour. I may able to obtain money or food in some way, and—” be His voice failed him, for in spite of his resolution, the entire improbability of what he had last mentioned rushed upon his mind, and his heart sank within him at the appalling prospect which seemed before him. He could not talk hopefully of that which seemed almost impossible; and he could not keep up a show of cheerfulness he did not really feel. "Let us thank God for present blessings," he at length said, and in a low and husky voice he did so. Sad indeed was that morning meal. The little ones, hungry from previous privation, and unable to comprehend the situation of the family, ate greedily their portion, and then received from their parents what the latter had neither appetite nor the heart to retain for themselves. The meagre breakfast eaten, the miller rose from his scat ; taking his old hat from its peg, he left the house. Uncertain whither to direct his steps, and unwilling yet to beg, more by accident than design he took his way by the old mill. As he walked on, his eye anxiously searched the sky for signs of an approaching storm, his only permanent relief. A few light, fleecy clouds, such as had often lingered in the sky, only could be seen. "The Lord hides his face in anger," said he to himself; "clouds and darkness are round about him." But "righteousness and judgment are the habitation of his throne," the voice of memory whispered; and the old man silently acquiesced in the declaration of inspiration. Sadly he surveys the scene before him. The old mill looked solitary and forsaken. Its huge wheel, dry and rusty, seemed a giant resting from its labours. The little babbling brook, which hardly bathed the under edge of the lowest bucket, seemed to say, "Never again, never again, old man, shall I be thy servant." The door swung idly upon its hinges. Tools lay scattered about as left when last used. The miller sat down upon the door-stone and buried his face in his hands. Remaining thus lost in meditation for some time, he was aroused by a familiar voice, apparently proceeding from the opposite side of the mill. It was a low, gentle voice; one that had often soothed him, when toil-worn and weary, and which he had said was sweeter music to his ear than any strain from a stringed instrument. Even now it acted like a charm upon him, for he lifted his head and listened eagerly to catch each word. "Poor, dear papa," murmured the voice, "how I wish I could do something to help him! If I was only a great strong girl, then I could work, and get money, and buy bread, and do ever so many things. Little brook, ain't you ever going to get big and strong again so as to turn the wheel?" It was the miller's little daughter Mary, who was slowly walking along the margin of the brook towards the place where her father was sitting. Passing the corner of the mill she saw him sitting upon the door-stone. With an exclamation of joy she hastened towards him, and in a moment more was nestling in his arms, while he impressed kiss after kiss on her rosy cheek. At length, looking up in his face, she said, Papa!" "Well, my daughter." "I was thinking, dear papa, this morning, when you and mother seemed so troubled, what we could do to help you. I thought and thought a long while, but couldn't find a way to earn any money. At last I came out doors' to see if the sky looked as if there would be any rain, and all I could see was those little clouds over the big hill there, and they didn't seem like much. Then, father, I remembered that story in the Bible you were reading Sabbathday, about the drought where Elijah was, and I thought it seemed just like this. And then I wondered if you were to pray to God as Elijah did, if God wouldn't make it rain as he did then. Don't you think he's just as kind as he was then, father?" "The same yesterday, to-day, and for ever," rose spontaneously to the old man's lips. The suggestion of his child fell upon his heart with singular power. So unexpected was any thing of the kind from such a source, that as he looked down into the earnest depths of the clear, blue eyes, raised so anxiously towards his, it seemed as though an unseen spirit from another world had placed the thought in the mind, and prompted the words from the lips of his daughter. "Ask, and it shall be given you," was the sentiment which a new and most powerful hope suggested as its foundation; and opening the well-worn pocket Bible which he always carried with him, he sought for something which might still more increase it. A leaf turned down to mark some passage of interest arrested his intention. Unfolding it he read : -- "If ye then being evil know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them which ask him?" "It is enough," he said devoutly, as he closed the sacred volume. "Let us pray, my child," and as he spoke, father and daughter knelt upon the turf by the moss-grown doorstone. With uncovered heads, reverently they raised their closed eyes towards the blue sky, and the miller poured forth in simple earnest words the strong desire of both their hearts. He prayed that the Great Father might |