not seem a very "fine lad": he was pale and thin, and had large dark eyes and fair hair hanging nearly to his shoulders, and was very pretty, Jack thought, only too much like a girl; he was dressed in black velvet, and he had a book full of coloured pictures in his hand. For days afterwards Jack could talk of nothing else but the pretty boy at the great house, and he asked his father innumerable questions about him, and could not hear half as much as he wanted. John Smith senior was tired when he came home from his work, and sat and smoked his pipe after supper while his son chattered about all he had seen and heard during the day, and all the wonderful things Shag had done, and how clever he was, and then came the usual question:

"Did you see Master Regy to-day, father?"

"Yes, Jack, I saw him several times; he's mostly about the garden."

"And did he talk to you, father?"

Aye," said his father puffing away.

"What about?" asked Jack.

"Well, I can't rightly mind, lad. About different things." "Can't you remember anything?" asked Jack, presently. "Well, let me see. He asked what I was doing, and if I'd put some strawberry-plants in his garden. And why the flowers he planted always died."

"And why do they, father?"

"Well, I should say because he's always pulling them up to see if the roots are all right."

"Oh," said Jack, " And what else?"

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seen, crossing the common which led from the park to the village, Jack and Shag, the latter scampering with fierce barks, after imaginary rabbits or rats, and the former trudging along with his hands in his pockets, and a thoughtful frown, not often to be seen on his merry face, wrinkling his forehead.

"Ten shillings! I could never earn it! Not if I were to save up my halfpence for a whole year!" Jack was saying to himself," and I know father can't help me now. I must give it up; but how nice it would have been! I could have made mother a foot-stool, and a little table for her work, and a nice little kennel for Shag to sleep in, and lots of things. It's a great pity!"

Jack had always a longing for a box of tools, and when he was quite a little fellow, he used to plan how by-and-bye he would earn money and buy one for himself; and lately all his old longings had been revived by the sight of one his friend Regy had been showing him. Such a beauty! it had been displayed in the wood adjoining the garden, which was the boys' favourite meeting-place, and on the soft green moss the contents were one by one laid out and handled by Jack with quite a loving touch; there was the little saw, and hammer, and chisel, and packets of shining brass-headed nails, and all the rest of the bright implements that go to make a tool-box perfect. Jack's admiration and delight showed itself in his eyes and made Regy say, "I can't give it to you, Jack, for it is papa's present to me, and he wants me to learn to use them; and I must try soon; but I could get you one just like it, for I know where papa bought this, only it's rather expensive-ten

Jack laughed.

"What a funny boy, father; and did he ask about me?" “Why, yes, so he did. He asked what you did all day, and if you had a garden."

"And did you tell him about Shag ?"

"Yes, I think so. But come, my boy, that'll do; you beat Master Regy, with your questions, I do declare!"

But this was all some time ago, and since then Jack had often met Reginald Graham, the squire's only son, in the park, or the woods behind the house, and they generally stopped to have a talk, and of course Shag had been introduced and petted, and his various accomplishments of begging and speaking for a bit of bread displayed and duly admired. Reginald seemed even more lonely than Jack. His mother was a good deal occupied with the baby-sister whose charms were expatiated upon by her brother with much pride, and his father went out for long rides. "When I'm nine I shall go with him," the boy would say.

There were no end to the things Regy was to do when he was nine! He was to have a pony of his own, and a dog, and a tutor to live with him, and to leave off taking medicine and being coddled-so he informed Jack confidentially. There was no doubt but that poor little Master Regy was very delicate, and his parents were very anxious about him; however, the doctors said that if he had plenty of fresh air and rest, in a few months he might be quite well. And the boy firmly believed that the wonderful ninth birthday was to bring health and strength with all the other blessings he longed for.

And now this period was drawing near to both the boys, for they had discovered to their delight, that they were the same age, their birthdays being in the same month; though Jack was so manly and well-grown that he looked at least a year older than fragile little Reginald.

One sunny summer afternoon about this time you might have

Rather expensive, indeed! Poor Jack felt that it was a hopeless luxury, to be thought of no more by a boy who only earned a penny or twopence now and then.

"I couldn't give you the money, either," observed Regy, watching his friend's down-cast face. "I wish I could, but I've spent all my allowance, and papa doesn't like me to ask for more. But you can use mine when you like, Jack."

"Thank you, Master Regy," said Jack. But he felt as he turned away that it wouldn't be at all the same thing as having one for his own-indeed he doubted whether he would have the chance that Master Regy so freely offered, for Jack had found out that the things the little squire meant to do did not by any means always come to pass, and though he was very sweettempered and pleasant he was rather a capricious young gentleman.

So Jack wisely made up his mind to think no more of a pleasure so utterly beyond his means of procuring, but I am sorry to say he broke his resolve not five minutes after he had made it.

Jack's mother always said "When once that lad takes a thing into his head, he'll never rest till he's got what he wants.” So now, all though his walk, and when he got home, and while he was doing his lessons, the thought kept coming into his mind, "How nice it would be to have a box of tools !"

Jack dreamed of them that night and of the wonderful things he made with them, and he awoke next morning with a pang of fresh disappointment to think that not only had he not got them, but that he had no chance of ever calling them his own.

That day for the first time for many weeks, Mr. Manners, the schoolmaster, had to reprove his usually good pupil for inattention and thoughtlessness. When he came out of school the boys could not get him to look at their marbles with any interest or to join them in their games; and even Shag, as he followed him home, saw that something was the matter and looked up with his little head on one side and his bright eyes glancing, to ask what it was. Poor little Shag, he did not know how he was to be involved in his master's trouble!

After a rather silent tea, Jack restlessly started off for a walk in the cool summer evening, and as he strolled along in the direction of the wood, still pondering the question "How could I get ten shillings?" he heard his name eagerly called, and saw the Squire's son coming towards him.

"Jack, Jack!" he cried, "I've been looking for you for ever so long. What do you think? You know that I told you papa said I might have a dog of my own when I was nine. Well, I'm so nearly nine that he says I needn't wait if I get a chance of one I like."

"Yes?" said Jack, inquiringly, as Regy stopped, out of breath. 66 Well, I told him I knew of one. You know, Jack, I never saw a dog I could like so well as your little Shag, and if you will give him to me, you shall have my beautiful new box of tools for your very own. Papa says I may do what I like with them."

'Shag!" exclaimed Jack, while all the colour seemed to rush from his rosy cheeks, “No, I couldn't part with Shag!"

“Oh, Jack, do," pleaded Regy. "I will be so kind to him, and you can see him whenever you like; and you will have the tools, you know, and can make all sorts of things with them. Oh, Jack, I do want him so; you must let me have him."

And the boy, who was not used to being denied anything on which he had set his heart, looked up very much inclined to cry. Jack hesitated for one moment; he was really fond of little pale delicate Master Regy, and could not bear to make him unhappy; then he looked at Shag, who stood wagging his tail and watching the two boys, and he exclaimed:

"I'd do anything else for you, Master Regy, but I can't give you Shag. Why, he'd be miserable away from me."

"He wouldn't, I tell you," cried Regy, more earnestly than ever."How could he be miserable when I should treat him so well. He'd have much better food than you could give him -beautiful bones, and biscuits, and a nice stable full of hay to sleep in; and you could come and see him. Please say yes, dear Jack-and look here, I've brought the tools."

And he thrust the box into Jack's hands. The sight of the treasure he had been coveting sent a thrill of pleasure into the boy's heart; after all, it wouldn't be like selling Shag to a stranger, and perhaps he really would be happier if he got more to eat, for he often had to go short now. (Oh, Jack, you little know a dog's nature if you think that!) Master Reginald saw that Jack was wavering, and he pressed his advantage.

"Say yes, Jack, say yes," he urged, taking Shag in his arms. The word was said, and in a moment Regy had disappeared with his prize, and Jack found himself walking slowly home in the twilight with the longed-for box in his arms, and all alone. How could he do it? I can faney my little readers saying, and so I said when I heard of it. I can only account for it by the fact that we none of us, old or young, value our blessings as we ought to do, while we have them; they "brighten as they take their flight," the poet says, and when they are quite gone, we find out for the first time what we have lost. Which of you ever thought to thank God for giving you your eyesight? Yet what a wonderful gift it is! and if you, like many people, were to become blind, and never see again, wouldn't you wonder you had thought of it so little, and so seldom felt grateful for it while this priceless blessing was yours? And your mother's love? Do you ever stop in your play, and your plans, to think how thankful you should be for this daily, hourly, unspeakable happiness? No, you enjoy it without for a moment thinking how terrible it would be if you should lose it for ever. The same with health, food, and clothing, and I do not say that in this way we are a bit better than you children; we take our mercies as matters of course, till we discover by sad experience what it is to have to live without them. It was so with my little hero, Jack. I am quite sure that if he had realised what it would be to lose the affection and companionship of his faithful little friend, no treasures would have tempted him to throw it away. And I am glad to be able to tell you that even before he had reached his home, he had begun to feel remorse for what he had done. He could not bear to go in and tell his father and mother, so he wandered about the garden till bed-time, and then ran quickly upstairs to his own room, so that they might not see that there were only two feet instead of six.

SCRIPTURE ENIGMA.

NO. XVIII.

In His temple suddenly
Shall He be,

And God's message unto men
Brings He then.

But His coming, who in pride
May abide?

1. This was the title that the patriot bore
Who built his ruined city's walls once more.
2. Dost thou God's chosen messenger defy,

False prophet? thou this very year shalt die 3. Ye chamberlains, heed not the tawdry crown Of her that was your queen, but hurl her down. 4. These laws were fixed, unalterably sure,

Nor from their power were throned kings secure 5. O, swarthy Eastern maid! what sympathy Attracted Israel's leader thus to thee?

6. This prince from Persia came (so Cyrus willed), The ruined temple of the Lord to build.

7. It touched the food, and lo! the sacred flame Burned high upon the rock from whence it came. 8. Cruel is wrath, by passion's tempest fanued; But who before this bitter foe can stand?

9. To God and country false, the prophetess With lies the temple-builders would distress. 10. Here do seven corpses hang, a sight of fear, The solitary mourner crouches near.

11. Hilkiah's son, the household's lord, who camo To meet the Assyrian in his master's name. 12. The graven signet seals the king's decree,

Which none henceforth may break, not even he. 13. God's kingdom cometh not with this, but still Grows like the flowers, flows like the silent rill. 14. Take us the little thieves that spoil the vine, So shall our vintage yield the choicest wine. 15. Sudden around the sleeper torches flare,

And this with brazen discord rends the air. 16. Ungrudgingly to one another show

Kind welcome both to friend and bitterest foe. 17. If the dead rise not, then we well might cry, "This let us do, to-morrow we may die." 18. It stood beside the altar; as they passed The people into it their offerings cast. 19. Prophetic, yet fantastic past belief!

Such homage paid to that one centre sheaf! 20. This shall ye hear behind you; hear it say, "Walk ye in confidence, this is the way." 21. A fainting slave the robbers left to dic.

They knew not that the vengeful foe was nigh. 22. Froin morn until this hour, upon the hill The prophets cried; their God is silent still. 23. Thy charities should be of show bereft;

Let not thy right hand know what doth thy left. 24. The fishers leave their boats with these, and go To follow with their Lord through toil and woe. 25. No sound of this was heard, as rose in air God's temple grandly silent, great and fair.

it was his daughter's first duty and pleasure to give. | Her brother loved and trusted her too, in his way, but he was only a lad, and too well contented with himself and his life to know the value of her love as yet, and she was not without anxious thoughts about him. He was supposed to be distinguishing himself in a New England College as he had before distinguished himself in the High School of the village, and only spent his vacations at home.

There was a difference of nearly twenty years in the ages of Gershom Holt's two sons, and they had little in common except their father's name. Elizabeth loved them both, and respected the youngest most. Jacob was a little afraid of his sister, and took pains to be on the best of terms with her, and he could not forget sometimes in her presence, that he had done some things in his life which he was glad she did not know.

He had married early in life, a pretty, commonplace woman, who had grown thin and querulous in the years that had passed since then, and who was not at all fitted to be the great lady of Gershom, as the rich man's wife might have been. That place was filled by Elizabeth, who filled it well and enjoyed it.

With its large garden and orchard, and its sloping lawn, shaded by trees beginning to look old and venerable beside those of more recent growth in the village street, the old square house looked far more like the great house of the village than the finer mansion lately built by Jacob further up the hill. Under Elizabeth's direction it had been modernized and beautified by the throwing out of a bow window and the addition of a wide verandah on two sides. Every thing about it, without and within, indicated wealth moderately used, for comfort and not for display. It was the pleasantest house in the village to visit at, everybody said; for the squire so old Mr. Holt was generally called-was very hospitable, and all sorts of people were made welcome there.

There were by this time people in Gershom who had outlived the remembrance of the days when all the settlers, rich and poor alike, were socially on a level, and who spoke smoothly and loftily about "station" and "position" and "the working classes," but the young Holts were not among them. Elizabeth and Clifton deserved less credit than was given them, on account of their unassuming and agreeable manners with the village people, for they did not need to assert themselves as some others did. Miss Elizabeth, for all her unpretending ways, was the great lady of the village, and liked it, and very likely would have resented it, had a rival appeared to call her right in question.

The Holts of the Hill were in most respects very different from the Holts of the village. They lived and worked, and dressed and conducted themselves generally very much as they had been used to do in the early days of the settlement. The old man had been long dead, and his widow and her two daughters lived on the farm. One of the daughters was a childless widow, Betsey, the other had never married. "A good woman with an uncertain temper" was the character which many of her friends would have given her, and some of them might have added that she had had a hard life and many cares, and no wonder that she was a little hard and sour after all she had passed through.

But this was by no means all that could be said of Miss Betsey.

There was little intercourse between the Holts of the Hill and the village Holts, and it was not the fault of Elizabeth. It was Betsey who decidedly withdrew from any intimacy with her cousins. She was too old-fashioned, too "set" in her way to fall in with all their new notions, she said, and from the time that Elizabeth came home from school to be the mistress of her father's house, and the most popular person in Gershom, she had had but little to do with her. It hurt Elizabeth that it should be so, for she respected her cousin, and would have loved her, and would doubtless have profited by their intercourse if it had been permitted. But she never got beyond a certain point in intimacy with her, at least she did not for a time.

The Hill Holts were much respected in the neighbourhood, and Miss Betsey exerted an influence in its way, almost as great as did Miss Elizabeth. One or two persons who knew them both well, said they were very much alike, though to people generally they seemed in temper, in tastes, and in manner of life, as different as well could be. They were alike, and they were different, and the chief difference lay in this, that Miss Betsey was growing old and had passed through troubles in her time, and Miss Elizabeth was young, and had most of her troubles before her.

The village of Gershom centre, as it was called, at this time lay chiefly on the north bank of the Beaver River. Its principal street ran north and south at right angles to the river, and the village houses clustered closest at the end of the bridge that crossed it. At the south end of the bridge, another street turned west down the river, and at a little distance became a pleasant country road, which led to the hill farm of the Holts, and past it to the neighbouring township of Fosbrooke. Another street went east, on the north side of the river a few hundred yards, and then turned north to the Scotch settlement at the Gore.

On this street, before it turned north, the new church stood. There was a wide green common before it, shaded by young trees, and only the enclosing fence and the road lay between this and the river, which was broad and shallow, and flowed softly in this part of its course. The church was a very pretty one of its kind-white as snow, with large paned windows, and green venetian blinds. It had a tall slender spire in which hung the first bell that had ever wakened the echoes in that part of the country for miles around, and of the church and the bell, and the pretty tree-shaded common before it, the Gershom people were not a little proud.

Behind the church lay the graveyard, already a populous place, as the few tall monuments, and the many less pretentious slabs of grey or white stone showed. It was enclosed by a white fence tipped with black, and shaded by many young trees, and it was a quiet and pleasant place. Between the church and the graveyard was a long row of wooden sheds. They were not ornamental, quite the contrary; but they were very useful as a shelter for the horses of the churchgoers who came from a distance, and they had heen added by way of conciliating the North Gore people, when one and another of them began to come to the village church.

Towards the church one fair Sabbath morning in June, many Gershom people were hastening. Already there were vehicles of great variety in the sheds, and horses were tied here and there along the fences under the trees. There were groups of people lingering in Gershom fashion on the church steps and on the grass, and the numbers, and the air of expectation over all, indicated that the occasion was one of more than usual interest. All Gershom had turned out hoping to see and hear the new minister whose coming was to be an assurance of peace to the church and to the congregation. They were to be disappointed for that day, however, for the minister had not come. Squire Holt and his son and daughter came with the rest. The old man lingered at the gate exchanging greetings with his neighbours, and the young people went on toward the door.

"Gershom is the place after all, Lizzie," said her brother. "It is pleasant to see all the folks again. But I don't believe I'm going to stay to see Jacob through this business. Well! never mind, Lizzie," he added, as his sister looked grave. "I'll see you through, if you say so. And here come Ben and Cousin Betsey; let us wait and speak to them." "Clifton," said his sister, earnestly, "Ben is Cousin Betsey's best hand this summer. It won't do to beguile him from his work, dear. You must not try it."

Nonsense, Elizabeth. It is rather soon to come down on a fellow like that, before I have even spoken to him. I never made Ben idle, quite the contrary."

Coming slowly up the green slope between the gate and the church were the two persons recognised by Clifton as Ben and Cousin Betsey. They moved along in a leisurely way, nodding to one and speaking to another, so that there was time to discuss them as they approached.

"Lizzie," said her brother, "Do you suppose you'll ever come to look like Cousin Betsey?"

"I am quite sure I shall never wear such a bonnet," said Elizabeth, pettishly. "Why will she make a fright of herself?"

"It is as an offset to you-so fine as you are," said Clifton, laughing. "She had that gown before Ben was born; I remember it perfectly."

Miss Betsey Holt was a striking-looking person, notwithstanding the oddness and shabbiness of her dress. Scantiness is a better word for it than shabbiness, for her dress was of good material, neat, and well preserved, but it was without a superfluous fold or gather, and in those days, when, even in country places, crinoline was beginning to assert itself, she did look ludicrously straight and stiff. Miss Elizabeth's dress was neither in material nor make of the fashion that had its origin in the current year, and city people, wise in such matters, might have set them both down as old-fashioned. But in appearance, as they drew near one another, there was a great contrast between them, though in feature there was a strong resemblance.

There was more than fifteen years' difference in their ages, and Betsey looked older than her forty years. She was above the middle height, thin and dark and wrinkled, and there were white streaks in the brown hair brought down low and flat upon the cheek, but in every feature the bright youthful beauty of the girl had once been hers. Some of the neighbours, who were regarding them as they met,

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would have said that once Miss Betsey had been much handsomer than ever Miss Elizabeth would be. For Miss Betsey had been young at a time when there was little danger that indolence or selfindulgence could injure the full development of healthful beauty, and as yet Miss Elizabeth had fallen on easy days, and was languid at times, and delicate, and if the truth must be told, a little discontented with what life had as yet brought her, and a little afraid of what might lie before her, and there was a shadow of this on her fair face to-day.

They had not much to say to each other, and they stood in silence watching the two lads. Clifton was considered in Gershom to have learned very fine manners, since he went to college, but he had forgotten them for the moment, and was as boyish and natural as his less sophisticated cousin. They were only second cousins, Ben being the only child of Reuben Holt's eldest son, who had died early. His Aunt Betsey had brought the boy up, and "had not had the best of luck in doing it," she sometimes told him; but he was the dearest person in the world to her, for all her pretended discontent with her success. She watched the two lads as they went into the eager discussion of something that pleased them, and so did Elizabeth, for it was a pleasant sight

Elizabeth looked grave.

"Cousin Betsey, you were always hard on my brother Clifton."

Betsey shrugged her shoulders.

"You are harder on him this minute than I am. I don't suppose he has done anything very bad this time-worse than usual, I mean."

"Have you heard anything? Did you know he was sent home?" asked Elizabeth in dismay.

"He sent a letter to Ben a spell ago, and I saw it lying round. You needn't tell him so. If it is as he says, there ain't much wrong this time. Here is Hepsey Bean."

Miss Bean had come to inquire if anything had been heard of the minister, but the cousins were too much occupied in watching the two lads to answer her, and Hepsey's eyes followed theirs.

"Are not they alike as two peas?" said she. " 'Not their fixings exactly, I don't mean

Miss Elizabeth laughed, even Miss Betsey smiled, touched with a grim sense of humour as she regarded the lads. Their "fixings" were certainly different. Everything, from the tips of Clifton's shining boots to the crown of his shining hat, declared him to be a dandy. His collar, necktie, coat, and all the rest, were in the latest fashion, a fashion a sight of which, but for his coming home, the Gershom people might not have been favoured with for a year to come. His compulsory departure from the seat of learning had been delayed while the tailor completed his summer outfit, so that there could be no mistake about his "fixings.”

As for Ben, he was fine also, in a new suit of homespun, which, since it came from the loom, and, indeed, before it went to the loom, had passed through