and we perceive them not. Neither do we lay to heart the sweet lesson which they are intended to convey. Can either of you tell me what that lesson is ?"

William was the first to answer. He had learned it long since. Yes, father, trust in God."

"God will provide," added Alice, softly.

In

I said nothing, for my heart was full. "Yes, my children, God will provide. everything, by prayer and supplication, let us make our requests known unto him. They that put their trust in God shall not want any good thing."

I never afterwards forgot this lesson. William commenced his journal of daily providences and daily mercies, and was astonished to find how many he had to record. Somehow, the more we looked the more we found, and the more we perceived how our eyes had indeed been "holden" hitherto.

CHAPTER XVI.

LIFE IN EARNEST.

TRULY has it been said that there are "little chapters in every-day life which seem to be nothing, and yet affect all the rest of the history." A never-to-be-forgotten chapter was the history of that day to which I am about to refer, together with the new thoughts, and feelings, and resolutions to which it gave birth. All arose out of a conversation which I had with my brother William. We had been at work in the garden, and, having done everything that we could find to do, were walking briskly up and down, in order to try and keep ourselves warm, for the day was intensely cold. I was stronger than of old, and my step was fleet and firm. After a time I stopped short, glowing with exercise, and said, exultingly, "Well, it is something to have conquered the cold. But it was hard work, eh, William ?"

"Yes, indeed," replied my brother. And,

although he smiled for a moment, I saw that he was looking sad and pre-occupied.

"What is the matter?" asked I.

"Nothing," answered William. "I was only thinking."

"It will not do to think about some things -if we can help it, that is."

"But I cannot help it."

"After all it does no good."

William sighed. "Have you noticed," asked he, after a pause, "how closely my mother and Alice have sat at needlework of late ?"

"Yes. They are making shirts. I fancy that my mother intends giving us a present of some. I am sure I want them badly enough, for one."

"I do not think that they are for us, John. When my mother has finished them she puts them into a bundle, and Mrs. Blake takes them away for her. for her. I have observed that she always places them carefully aside before my father's return. I do not think he knows how hard they work."

"Whom can the shirts be for, I wonder? Not Uncle Jabez, surely?"

"Oh, John, don't you know? Can you not

guess what makes my mother and Alice sit sewing as they do from morning until evening? They are working to help pay Charley's doctor, and in order that we may have bread to eat."

"No, I never should have guessed it. And we-oh, William, what can we do?"

"I have accepted a situation at Mr. Martin's until something better offers itself."

"Then you will not be a clergyman after all.” "It does not appear to be God's will. always felt that I was unworthy."

I

"You must not say that, William. But you are right in going to Mr. Martin's. We are no longer children. We must act and not dream. This, then, was the reason that you took so much pains to learn accounts and double-entry? I wish now that I had done the same. My dear mother! My poor little sister Alice!"

The tears rushed to my eyes, but I forced them back. I could not think. All was confusion, except the vague, indefinite wish to be something more than a mere looker-on in the battle of life-in the conflict that was taking place among my dear ones. I cared not what I did, or how hard I worked.

"Sooner than remain at home any longer," said I, "eating the bread of idleness, I will break stones on the high road."

"I think, John, you are scarcely strong enough for that yet," said William, laying his hand upon my arm. "But I doubt not that something will be found for you to do ere long.”

"Ask Mr. Martin if he knows any one who is in want of a lad to work in the garden," said I. "I could at least manage to do that."

"I believe my father is looking out for us, and has been doing so for some months past, but hitherto without success."

"How blind I must have been to what was passing around me."

"It was not kind in me, perhaps, to open your eyes," said William. "But you must have known it sooner or later."

66

"The sooner we know what we have to contend with the better," said I. William, do you remember how I conquered the cold this morning? Even so, by God's help, we shall yet conquer and overcome the difficulties that surround us. It was hard work; but I do not mind that. I do not care for myself. I am a boy-almost a man; but my mother, and