"For I know, mother," said she lovingly, "it must be good, if you give it." "You may take the same from a much higher authority, my dear," replied her mother, reaching down a little Bible that always stood by her work-basket. Turning over its leaves, she pointed to the fourteenth chapter of St. Luke, and Ruth read, "When thou art bidden of any man to a wedding, sit not down in the highest room; lest a more honourable man than thou be bidden of him; and he that bade thee and him come and say to thee, Give this man place; and thou begin with shame to take the lowest room." "Dear mother," she said, "it seems to me that if you know where to look for it, you may always find guidance in the Bible." "Very true, Ruth. It is wonderfully adapted to all our wants and conditions. That shows its Divine origin." "I think," mused Ruth, with the book still in her hand," it was very gracious of our Lord to teach us how to avoid even the little shame of having to take a lower place." "The little shame!" repeated her mother smiling. "You have altered your opinion, Ruth, haven't you, since last week? when I remember a girl who wanted very much to take a good high seat among her companions, and thought it would be a terrible hardship to content herself with a humbler one." "Well, mother, now that I have taken my seat, I do not find it so uncomfortable as I expected. It is nice to know I have nothing to conceal; and when Miss Day saw me come in at the side door as you wished me I didn't care a bit! Some of the girls seem rather stand-offish and proud. Miss Noakes is the worst I think. I don't like Miss Noakes; and do you know, Carrie Lane told me her friends are not rich any more than we are, and she says Bertha often makes herself ridiculous by her airs." "Ruth, Ruth!" said Mrs. Graylie, "be as comfortable as you can in your lowly seat; but don't make an extra cushion out of the foibles of your neighbour." "Do you know of any text about that, mother?" asked Ruth archly. SCRIPTURE ENIGMA. NO. XXXIV. Double Acrostic. "Asked" of the Lord, in humble prayer; To her, who in deep sorrow prayed, 1. Whither did she each year repair? As filled with joy she left him there? 2. Here, where the treasure long had lain, 3. Two masters man can never serve, 4. See yonder group so weird and pale; them to its banks, and it would have been a good plan to appoint a committee to see to such, Davie thought. 66 "I'll just have a look down there," he said to himself, and as soon as he was over the fence and out of sight, he ran rapidly toward the river. There were all sorts of children there, some of whom had wandered down to the millpond. There were two boats on the river, but there were grown people as well as children in them, and there were grown people walking on the bank who might justly be considered responsible for the safety of those who could not take care of themselves, and Davie was about to turn up the hill again, when a little fellow hailed him. "I say, Davie, what do you suppose Dannie Green and Frankie Holt and two more boys are doing? They have taken your raft and are going to have a sail on the Black Pool-so they said." They could never do it," said Davie, with a sudden fear rising. 66 There was no turning up the hill after that. He ran across the two fields to the point where the raft had been left. It was gone sure enough, and he hastened on, stumbling over the stones and timber which Jacob Holt had last winter accumulated on the Varney place. Then he went through the strip of woods, and round the rocky point beyond, thinking all the time that such little fellows never could have pushed the raft so far up the stream, and that it was foolish for him to run. But he was not a minute too soon. Ile could never tell afterwards, whether he saw the raft, or heard the frightened cry first, but he knew that a boy had overbalanced and fallen into the water while trying to reach bottom with his pole in the deeper waters of the pool, and the next moment he had thrown off boots and coat and was striking out towards the spot where he had disappeared. The boy would rise in a minute, he thought, and he could get hold of him. But he did not rise for what seemed to Davie a very long time, and might never rise of himself. There was not a particle of risk, Davie knew, in diving to search for him, and if there had been, he would hardly have considered it in the excitement of the moment. It would have been the last of little Frank Holt if he had considered it long. The little fellow had fallen head foremost, and possibly had struck his head on one of the roots or sticks that had accumulated in the bottom of the pool, for when Davie brought him to the surface, he seemed quite insensible, and he struck out for the Ythan side of the pool. He did what he could for the boy, letting the water flow from his mouth and ears, and rubbing him rapidly for a time. He caught sight of the other lads as they reached the opposite shore with the raft, and saw them running at full speed in the direction of the Grove. But he felt that he must not wait for the help they would be sure to send, and gently lifting the boy in his arms, he went with him with all speed through the wood and up the hill to the house. A single sentence told the story, and in a minute little Frank was in a warm bath and then in a warm bed. He soon showed such signs of life as encouraged them to hope that there was not much the matter with him; and then Davie thought of the consternation which the other lads would cause when they carried the tale to the Grove. "I doubt you'll need to go as quick as you can, Davie. Think of the poor father and mother if they should hear." "Ay, lad, make what haste you can," said his grandfather, and neither of them were the less urgent that the child was the son of their " enemy." So Davie went down the field again in his wet clothes, but that mattered the less as he had the river to swim, the raft being on the other side. He put on his dry coat over his wet garments, and no one seemed to notice as he entered the Grove. No rumour of the accident had as yet spread through the crowd, and Davie spoke only to Miss Elizabeth, as he met her on the way home with her father. Happily the father and mother knew nothing of the matter, till by-and-by the boy, wrapped in one of Mrs. Fleming's best blankets, was carried and set with his bundle of wet clothes in the hall. It was his uncle Clifton who took him home, and all that he could tell about the matter was that he had fallen into the Black Pool, and somebody had taken him out. Dan Green kept his own counsel, running straight home and putting himself to bed. After his first sleep, however, he woke in such a fright that he could keep the tale no longer, but told it to his mother with many sobs and tears. His mother soothed and comforted him, believing that he had been startled out of a troubled dream. But the next day the story was told in Gershom at least a thousand times, and when Davie went into the postoffice for his grandfather's weekly paper, he heard, with mingled amazement and disgust, extravagant praises of his courage in saving the boy's life. Courage? Nonsense! Risk? Stuff!" He never bathed in Blackpool that he did not dive in at one side and come out at the other. Why, his little brother could do that. There was no more danger for them than for a muskrat, and Davie hurried away to escape more words about it, and to avoid meeting Mr. Maxwell and his friends, who were coming down the street. In his haste he nearly stumbled over Jacob Holt, who held him fast, and that was worse than all the rest. For Jacob could not utter a word, but choked and mumbled and shook his hand a great many times, and when Davie fairly got away, he vowed that he should not be seen at the post-office again for awhile, and he was not, but it was for a better reason than he gave to himself then. For Davie went about all next day with a heavy weight upon him, and a dull aching at his bones, as new as it was painful. He refused his dinner, and grew sick at the sight of his supper; and tossed, and turned, and muttered all night upon his bed, longing for the day. But the slow-coming light made him wish for the darkness again, for it dazzled his heavy eyes, and put strange shapes on the most familiar objects, and set them all in motion in the oddest way. A queer sort of light it seemed to be, for though he closed his eyes he did not shut it out, and the changes on things and the odd movements seemed to be going on still within the lids. So in a little he rose and dressed, and roused his brothers to bring the cows into the yard, meaning to help as usual with the milking. But the milking was done, and the breakfast over, and worship, and no one had seen Davie. He was lying tossing and DAVID FLEMING'S FORGIVENESS. muttering on the hay in the big barn, and there at last, in the course of his morning's work, his grandfather found him. He turned a dull dazed look upon him as he raised himself up, but he did not speak. "Are you no' well, Davie? Why did you no' come to your breakfast?" "I'm coming," said Davie, but he did not move. His grandfather touched his burning hand and his heart sank. "Come awa' to your grandmother." "Yes, we'll go to grannie," said Davie. Blinded by the sunlight, he staggered on, and his grandfather put his arm about him. Mrs. Fleming met them at the door as they drew near. "What can ail the laddie?" asked his grandfather with terror in his eyes. They made him sit down, and Katie brought some cold water. He drank some and put some on his head, and declared himself better. "It is some trash that he has eaten at that weary picnic," said grannie. "No, grannie, I hadna a chance to eat." "And you have eaten little since. Well, never mind. You'll go to your bed, and I'll get your mother to make you some of her herb tea." “And I'll be better the morn, grannie," said Davie with an uncertain smile. He drank his mother's bitter infusion, and tossed and turned and moaned and muttered, all day and all night, and for many days and nights, till weeks had passed away, and a time of sore trial it was to them all. He was never very ill, they said. He was never many hours together that he did not know those who were about his bed, and young Dr. Wainwright, who came every day to see him, never allowed that he was in great danger. But as day after day went on and he was no better, their hearts grew sick with hope deferred. Grannie alone never gave way to fear. She grew weak and weary, and could only sit beside him, little able to help him, but he never opened his eyes but her cheerful smile greeted him and her cheerful words encouraged him. His mother waited on him for awhile, but she was not strong, and had no spring of hope within her. Katie worked all day, and watched all night, and scorned the idea of weariness, but the Ythan water that trickled around her milkpans in the dairy, carried daily some tears of hers down to the Black Pool. "It is grandfather I'm thinking about," said she one day when she burst out crying in Miss Betsey's sight. "I am afraid I shall never be able to keep from thinking that God has been hard on grandfather, if anything should happen to Davie." "But God is not hard on your grandfather, and there is nothing going to happen to Davie," said Betsey, too honest to reprove the girl for the expression of thoughts which she had not been able to keep out of her own mind. It was the plunge into the Black Pool and the going about afterwards in his wet clothes that had brought on this illness, and that it should be God's will that David Fleming's grandson, his hope and stay, should lose his health, perhaps his life in saving the son of Jacob Holt, looked to Miss Betsey a terrible mystery. She did not say that God was hard on him, as poor Katie was afraid of doing, but when, now and then, there came a half hour when it seemed doubtful 7:07 whether Davie would get through, the thought that God would not afflict his servant to the uttermost helped her to still hope for the lad. As far as words and deeds went she showed herself always hopeful for him, and did more than even the doctor himself, in helping him to pull through. In country places like Gershom, where professional nurses were not often to be found, when severe sickness comes into a family necessitating constant attention by night as well as by day, the neighbours far and near might be relied upon for help, as far as it could be given by persons coming and going for a night or a day. The Flemings had had severe sickness among them more than once, but they had never called on their neighbours for help, and they could not bring themselves to do so now, even for nightwatching. That she should trust Davie to any of the kind young fellows who night after night offered their services, was to grannie impossible. She did not doubt their good will, but she doubted their wisdom and their power to keep awake after their long day's work. "And it is no' our way," said Mrs. Fleming, and that ended the discussions, as it had ended them on former occasions. "But they never can get through it alone this time," said Miss Betsey, "and I don't know but it is my duty to see about it, as much as anybody." It was just in the hot days in the beginning of August, when Betsey was wont to give up buttermaking and set to the making of cheese, the very worst time of the year for her to get away from home. But she saw no help for it. "You must do the best you can, mother, you and Cynthy, and Ben will give what help you need with the lifting. If I should never make another cheese as long as I live, I can't let Mrs. Fleming wear herself out and maybe lose her boy after all." So Miss Betsey went over one morning, "to inquire" she said, and some trifling help being needed for a minute, she took off her bonnet and "concluded to stay a spell," and that night Ben brought her bag over, which she had packed in the morning, and she stayed as long as she was needed, to the help and comfort of them all. As for the grandfather, it went hard with him these days. He was outwardly silent and grave as usual, giving no voice to the anxiety that devoured him. But at night when his wife slumbered, worn out with the day's watching, or when she seemed to slumber, and in Pine-tree Hollow, which in the time of his former troubles had become to him a refuge and a sanctuary, his cry ascended to God in an agony of confession and entreaty. He too wondered that it should be God's will that the child of his enemy should be saved, and his child's life made the sacrifice, but he did not consciously rebel against that will. It was God's doing; Davie had not even known whose child it was whom he tried to save. This was God's doing from beginning to end. Far be it from him to rebel against God, he said to his wife when, fearing for him and all that he might be thinking, she spoke to him about it. It was a terrible trouble, but it did not embitter him as former trouble had done, and his enemy had fewer of his thoughts at this time than might have been supposed. But he had not forgiven him. He knew in his heart that he had not forgiven him. When Jacob came with his wife, grateful and sorry, and eager to do something to express it, he kept quiet in a corner of Davie's room, into which they were not permitted to enter. Mrs. Fleming said all that was needful on the occasion, and when Jacob broke down and could not speak of his boy who had been given back to them almost from the dead, she laid her hand gently upon his arm and said, "Let God's goodness make a better man of you," and even Mrs. and on some of the verses she lingered reading them twice over, seeking from her husband audible assent to the comfort they gave: "The Lord our God is merciful, And He is gracious, Jacob did not feel like resenting the words. But Aye is He! as we ken well this day. And again, there was no one who could help them in their present trouble, she repeated, as they went sorrowfully away. No one except Miss Betsey, grannie felt gratefully, as she turned into the house again-Miss Betsey, who seemed made of iron, and never owned to being tired. She slept one night in three, when Katie and her mother kept the watching, and at other times she took "cat-naps" in the rocking-chair, or on Mrs. Fleming's bed, when grannie was at her brightest and could care for Davie in the early part of the day. And poor Davie tossed and muttered through many days and nights, never so delirious as to have forgotten the summer's work, but never quite clear in his mind, and always struggling with some unknown power that, against his will, kept him back from doing his part in it. Till one day he looked into his grandfather's face with comprehending eyes, and said weakly, but clearly: "It must be time for the cutting of the wheat, grandfather; I have been sick a good while, surely?" "Aye, have you; a good while. But you are better now, the doctor says. And never heed about the cutting of the wheat. Mark Varney has done all that, and more. We have had a good harvest, Davie." "Have we, grandfather?" said Davie, looking with surprise and dismay at the tears on his grandfather's face. "God has been good to us, laddie," said Mr. Fleming, trying to speak calmly, and then he rose and went out. "So we've had a good harvest, have we? And Mark Varney! I wonder where he turned up. Oh well! it's all right I daresay,-and-I'm tired already." And he turned his head on the pillow and fell asleep. Yes, Mark Varney had taken Davie's work into his own hand. He came over with Mr. Maxwell as soon as he heard the lad was ill. He made no formal offer of help, but just set himself to do what was to be done. He had all his own way about it, for Mr. Fleming was too anxious to take much heed of the work, since someone else had taken it in hand; and no one knew better how work should be done than Mark. He had all the help he needed, for the neighbours were glad to offer help and give it too in this time of need. The harvest was got through and the grain housed as successfully as the hay had been, before Davie, lank and stooping, crept out over the fields of Ythan. It was Sunday afternoon again, when Katie and he went slowly down the brae toward the cherrytrees. Their grandfather and grandmother looked after them with loving eyes. "The Lord is aye kind," said Mrs. Fleming, and then she read the 103rd Psalm in the old Scottish version, which she "whiles" liked to do. She paused now and then because her voice trembled, "Such pity as a father hath Unto his children dear, Like pity shows the Lord to such Such pity as a father hath.' We ken well what that means, Dawvid; a father's pity; such pity and love as we felt for our Davie, when he lay tossing in his bed, poor laddie. And as we felt for him that's gone-" She could say no more at the moment, even if it would have been wise to do so. But by-and-by she rose and came toward him, and standing half behind him, laying her soft wrinkled old hand on his grey head, she said softly, "If I could but hear you say that you forgive— Jacob Holt!" Then there was a long silence in which she did not move. “Because I have been thinking that the Lord let our laddie do that-good turn for his-to put us in mind-" Again she paused. "And I would fain hear you say it, for his sake who has loved us, and forgiven so much to us." "I wish him no ill. I wouldna hurt a hair of his head. I leave him in God's hands.” He spoke huskily, with long pauses between the sentences. Whether he would have said more or not she could not tell. There was no time for more, for the bairns came in with their mother from the Sunday school, and quiet was at an end for the moment. It was a long time before the subject was touched upon between them again, and it was he who spoke first. A RECOLLECTION OF THE INDIAN UND NDER this title an article appeared in the "Sunday at Home" for January, in which a Company's officer gave an account of the events which had come within his cognisance in the Agra division of the North-west Provinces during that memorable period. It has occurred to me that a narrative of scenes witnessed, and of experience passed through in the Benares division of the North-west at the same time, might be acceptable to readers. Years before the Mutiny, Sir Henry Lawrence, in an article on the "Military Position of our Eastern Empire," after pointing out the unsatisfactory constitution of the native army, and the mistakes committed in the location of arsenals and treasuries, said, "We might take a circuit of the country, and show how many mistakes we have committed, and how much impunity has emboldened us in error, and how unmindful we have been that what occurred in the city of Cabul may some day occur at Delhi, |