"Not when you 've been brought up to it," returned the modern Gamaliel, loftily.

Pen had not been brought up to it; but the story had taken a deep hold upon his mind. He would have walked a long way to look at the originals in the little drama, if he could only have discovered their whereabouts; but there seemed some uncertainty about it. He puzzled over it often, as he sat on the steps with his fusees, through the long sunny days.

There was one inhabitant less in the crowded court that August. Pen, going up as usual one evening to Margaret's attic, found it deserted. The woman beneath told him that she had been taken away to the hospital that morning.

"When is she coming back?" asked Pen, blankly. "There'll be no coming back for her," said the woman, decidedly. "You can go and see her at the hospital, if you like, twice a week; it's in Grey's Road."

Pen limped down again, rather disconsolately. Margaret had not been always a congenial companion, but he had not many, and the fern had been a strong tie between them. He missed her more than he thought; and, the first day that the rules allowed, Pen presented himself at the hospital gates.

"Margaret Ellis," echoed the nurse, a tall kindlyfaced woman, in a snowy cap and apron. "Are you her brother?"

"No, nothink; but she lived beside us." "I am afraid you cannot see her to-day, my boy; she is very ill."

"Is she going to die?"

"I am afraid she is."

Pen gave a little sob.

“And she 'll never see my fern again.”

"You can hardly wish her to stay," said the nurse, not quite comprehending; "she has suffered a great deal here, and she would be safe with Jesus, we hope." A sudden light broke over Pen's troubled face; he had found the missing link.

“Oh, I know Him!" he cried out, joyfully; "it's the person who sat by the treasury."

The nurse looked at him doubtfully.

"I don't know; but you had better go now; you can come again on Saturday.”

Pen pondered it over as he went home. He had been right, after all; it was the hospital box. How strange that, among so many hospitals, he should have found the very place where He was! and yet that man with the old Book had said He was dead. All the parts of the story did not fit in-much of it he did not understand; but then, he had not been brought up to it, and they seemed to know about it.

"I didn't understand about my fern till I saw it grow," he wound up, unconsciously linking together the two great mysteries of the life that is, and the life that is to come.

And if he had had anything to give he would have given it then, but he had not. Nothing in the world, except-except-Pen's very heart stood still as it

came upon him-his fern. The poor widow gave her money to some one who was poorer than herself, or sick; Margaret was both. If it had been anything else she should have had it, but that-it was not possible to give her that.

Pen pattered back to his cellar in sore trouble; he took his fern out of its corner, and put his arms round it, and his face went down among the leaves, his one little piece of the great green world that he had never seen, possibly never might see. He thought of the light it had shed in that dismal room, and the gladness every new leaf had unfolded about him; of how the sick girl's face had lit up at the sight of its greenness-had she seen that person? he wondered, and had the rich people given her many things inside? And then the widow came back again, who had "given all that she had," and the little seeker, blindly groping after his Lord's will, fell asleep at last, his head upon the table beside his much-loved fern.

It seemed to Pen afterwards that he lived through a good deal in those few days. Saturday morning found him at the hospital with the fern in his arms. It was to be cast into the treasury. The nurse took it from him, and touched the fronds admiringly.

"It is a beautiful one," she said. "It will be a real comfort to her. She talks about the country incessantly."

Pen went away without a word. He sat on the steps in the summer moonlight that night long hours after the last chance of a customer had gone by; and when at length he went back to his cellar, he crept up to his pallet in the corner without one glance at the place where the little pot had stood.

He wandered round by the big hospital many a time that week, only to look at the rows of windows, and wonder which held his treasure, and how it looked, and if Margaret would care for it as he had. An hour before the gates were opened on the next Saturday, Pen was there, propped against the opposite wall on his crutch; and after that he had to wait a long time in the little room before the nurse came. She stood on the threshold, and patted his head kindly.

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'Margaret's troubles are over, my boy," she "She died three days ago."

said.

"Was she glad to get the fern?" asked Pen. "Yes; she kept it close beside her pillow till she died; and the last time she spoke, it was to ask to have it put in her coffin.

"And was it?" he queried, eagerly.

"Yes, certainly, and it was buried with her," answered the nurse, softly closing the door upon him. 'Perhaps she told Him how it was the only thing I had to give," he said to himself, as he limped slowly down the steps and back into the crowded street.

Ay, and perhaps she did. And perhaps, also-given more ignorantly, but as loyally and lovingly as were the widow's mites of old-not among the least of the gifts in His treasury the Master may have counted that little fern. E. K. O.

son.

What more does he promise? Can she believe it? Her meal and oil to last! Why, there is but a drop of oil and morsel of meal left! and this stranger calls for bread and promises that there shall be plenty for the future. By Whose truth does he promise it? She knows what the God of Israel has done-shut up the heavens-thinks that He who withholds can also give (Ps. civ. 28, 29). So what does she do? Without doubt or fear believes prophet's word-gives the prophet food and then-finds his words true-there is more meal and oil! She and her son may live, and there is joy once more in that house.

Now notice these points about the widow-(1) Her kindness. What did she do at once when Elijah asked her? How unlike some children who speak rudely-never willing to do anything for a stranger. What does Christ say about only a cup of cold water? (St. Matt. x. 42.) (2) Her faith. Had come to last meal, yet at Elijah's word shared it with him. Could there be a greater test of her faith? What a rebuke to those who are always troubled about their future--how they can get through the winter, etc. What does Christ promise to those who seek His Kingdom? (St. Matt. vi. 33.) Therefore may, like widow, "trust and not be afraid." (3) Her gratitude. What did she do for Elijah? People often receive kindness without showing gratitude. Remind of nine unthankful lepers. This one of the many women in Bible who "did what she could." What a lesson to all!

II. THE WIDOW'S SORROW. (Read 17-24.)

No. 1. ELIJAH AND THE WIDOW.

Now a sad day comes to the house. Probably children can all remember a similar one. The child of the house sick and dying. Perhaps had been merry laughing child, keeping whole house alive, now running errands for his mother-now stealing up quietly into the prophet's room to see him write-but now his voice is still-or only heard moaning in sickness. Doctors come-medicine given-every means tried; all of no avail-the child dies. Then is there indeed sorrow—“The only son of his mother, and she was a widow." To whom does she go in her trouble? What does she call Elijah? He had proved himself indeed a man of God"-by his conduct and life. What does she say to him? We don't know what this sin was-but she evidently thought the death of her son was a punishment for it. This connection of some calamity with some sin a common belief among Jews. (See Luke xiii. 4.) But our Lord says this is not so. Not sent as a punishment, but as warning to make men remember God. Evidently had this effect upon this widow-made her think of her sin and turn to God. What did Elijah do? Rightly called the "praying prophet!" Picture the scene. The prophet carrying the dead body up-stairs-laying it on his bed-kneeling down, stretching himself by side of the child-praying again-watching first spark of life return-carrying the boy down-the mother springing forward to meet him-the happy re-union. What does the woman say! So her trouble brought her to God, and her joy perfects her belief in God. This should be effect of all trouble. Remind of blind man who asked Christ for mercy-of St. Peter in trouble on the sea. So children may always, at all times, in all circumstances go to God, and will find Him a present help in trouble (Ps. xlvi. 1).

III. LESSONS. (1) The reality of prayer. Elijah prayed earnestly and was heard. God does not raise people to life now, but He still hears the widows' cries (Ps. lxviii. 5). Remind of many charities for helping widows and orphans-of sympathy always shown, etc. Thus their prayers answered and help given. (2) The blessing of God's presence. Elijah brought God's blessing to this house. Probably often prayed with the inmates-taught them to fear God-read the Law of Moses to them. This blessing still with those who seek God-will find Him in homes as well

as in His house of prayer. The blessing of the Lord

maketh rich.

Questions to be answered.

1. Where did Elijah go when he left Cherith, and to whom?

2. What promise was made to the widow?
3. What can you say about her conduct?
4. What trouble came upon her

5. How was her son restored?

6. What two lessons may we learn?

No. 2. ELIJAH AT MOUNT CARMEL.

Chapter to be read-1 Kings xviii. INTRODUCTION. For how long was there to be no rain? These three years nearly come to an end. How dry the country would be! Brooks dried upcracks in the ground-grass all withered-water fetched from long distances-great suffering and discomfort everywhere. What had been cause of the famine? But what was Ahab's great sin? Whom had he led into sin? Jeroboam led people to worship God in wrong way-Ahab leads people to worship false gods. Now God will show which is the true God.

I. ELIJAH AND OBADIAH. (Read 1-16.) Where had Elijah been living during the famine? What blessing had come to the widow? Now command comes for him to leave Sarepta. Whose command is it? God's voice must be instantly obeyed, so Elijah goes on his way. Where did Ahab live? (Ch. xxi. 1.) Who was the governor (or steward) of his house? What sort of a man was Obadiah? How had he been able to help the prophets? Thus his being in Ahab's court made him of great service to God's prophets. How sad he must often have been at what he saw -sacrifices offered to idols-false priests entertained by Ahab and Jezebel. Still he did what he could, and saved 150 prophets. Now what does Ahab tell him to do? What are they to go in search of? Fancy the king himself searching on foot all through the land for water! What a state of distress country must have been in! So off they start. Whom did Obadiah meet? What a pleasant meeting between those good men. But what does Elijah ask Obadiah to do? Is he willing to go and tell Ahab? Why not? See what a search Ahab must have been making for Elijah while he was quietly hid at Sarepta. What did Obadiah expect Elijah would do while he was gone? But what did Elijah promise? So Obadiah went and found Ahab, and Elijah went to meet him. Now what may we notice about Obadiah? (1) He was pious. Though living amongst wicked people, he feared God. Kept his lamp burning. Did not get spoiled by surrounding wickedness. What an example to children! Often may have to live amongst those who fear not God-boys in a workshop—girls in service, etc. God can keep safe -if seek Him with whole heart. Must ask to be kept unspotted (James 1. 27). (2) He was useful. He did what he could for God's people, and so did it for God. All can copy his example. Help the weak, encourage those who are persecuted for righteousness sake, comfort the sorrowful-will be accepted by Christ. (3) He was trustful. He believed Elijah, and went for Ahab. All these three points worthy of imitation. Even a child is known by his doings.

II. ELIJAH AND AHAB. (Read 17-40.) What did Ahab say to Elijah, and how did Elijah answer? Ahab's sins had caused the famine. Now shall all the people see who is the Lord. Where were they to be assembled ? Picture Carmel on map-over

hanging the sea, the crowds of Israelites on sides of mountain-the 450 false prophets ranged on one side -Elijah alone on the other. What plan does he propose? Both sides offer a bullock, and the true God to answer by fire. Do the people consent? Now picture the prophets of Baal-fetching a bullock -killing it, cutting it up-calling aloud-Elijah mocking them-the people looking on amazed-the priests getting in a fury-gradually throwing off their clothes-cutting themselves with knives-calling aloud-mad with excitement-leaping on the altar-dancing around-all in vain. Now is Elijah's turn. What does he tell the people to do? All come near and look on. What does he build up? Of how many stones, and why? What does he make all round the altar? What proof does he give that he has not concealed fire beneath? Picture the people bringing the pails of sea-water-dashing them once

twice-three times all round the altar-drenching the wood thoroughly. Now comes three o'clock, the hour of prayer (Acts iii. 1). Picture the prophet drawing near-his face towards Jerusalem (1 Kings viii. 35), the people standing in rapt attentionbeginning his prayer. What does he call God? He is indeed the God of their fathers-will He manifest Himself-let Israel know that He is God and Elijah His servant? Now what happens? Oh, what a wonderful sight! Down comes the fire--the ox-the wood-the water all licked up. God has spoken-He is the Lord. What do all the people do? Their hearts are turned back-they worship once more. Now what does Elijah call upon them to do? The false prophets must be destroyed-not one must escape. So shall evil be put away, and God's name be hallowed once more in Israel. Now let us see what we may learn from Elijah. (1) He was bold. Not afraid to stand before Ahab and tell him the plain truth. Not afraid also to face the 450 false prophets. In whose name did he trust? If God be for us, who can be against us (Rom. viii. 31)? (2) He was obedient. He went where Ged told him, and did what God told him without a word. These two things to be copied. Children often need boldnessto rebuke sin around them-to stand up for truth and purity amongst those who do not fear God; Elijah's God will stand by them-let them trust and not be afraid. (3) He was zealous. Did not keep his religion to himself-persuaded a whole nation. Obadiah's wisdom was to act secretly-Elijah's to act openly. Both did what they could-were accepted by God. Let each child ask-What can I do? What am I doing for God-to put down sin and lead others to God?

Questions to be answered.

1. Who was Obadiah?

2. What had he done for God?

3. What may we learn from him?

4. How was the true God to be known? 5. What was Elijah's prayer?

6. What can you say about Elijah?

CHAPTER I.-INTRODUCTORY.

VES, always Bertie and I— always Bertie first, that is, though I was seven years the elder.

There were only "Bertie and I" left now. Sisters and brothers

had died in infancy and early youth; and a

few years be

fore my story begins we had

also lost both our parents. Dark days had followed -days of mourning and sorrow, and, to me, of deep added bitterness-days which, I said to myself, had ended all my hopes for this life.

People had supposed us well off. Now they discovered their mistake.

I had had no bright clever ideas, such as would certainly have come to Bertie in my place. Time had passed, and I had just contrived-how I scarcely knew-to reach to-day; and how we should reach to-morrow was the problem which was making my head ache now, as I sat, on a dull winter afternoon, in my easy-chair by the fire, feeling weak and enfeebled after a long period of ill-health.

"How shall we get our next piece of bread, Bertie?"

But she had not even heard my question. Lovely little fair creature! I can see her now as at that moment. She stood before the miniature mirror that adorned our sitting-room mantleshelf, with Frank's midshipman's cap, with its bright buttons, set on her light short curls, while she sang with great spirit a nautical song which he had taught her, every verse of which ended with the words

I'm still the gallant middy.

Frank himself had first put his cap on her pretty close curls, just in the way she had it now; and when he had been about to start on his long, long voyage, he had spent a whole evening in bidding Bertie farewell, and in talking to her with great pretended seriousness concerning her future conduct.

"You will be as beautiful as a little queen in a year or two's time," I had heard him say; "but you must never play the coquette, mind. You must be always a real true brave woman, though you are such a little slender thing. But big souls may dwell in

little bodies; and, indeed, it is my private opinion that they very often prefer little bodies. And sono matter what further misfortunes may come-or however many dark clouds may overcast my little playmate's sky, she must never give way to despair, like a coward. And I don't believe she ever will. She will be true to her colours to the last, won't you, dear? And in all the storms she will be ready to stand up and sing

He paused, with half a smile, waiting for her to end his sentence. And then the beautiful violet eyes-misty with tears a moment before-took a roguish look, and the sweet daring voice rang out

"I'm still the gallant middy!"

There was nothing particularly striking or attractive in the song itself, perhaps; but, however that may be, neither Bertie nor I ever forgot it.

But I ought to say a little more of Frank. He was the younger son of a very old friend of our father's. Bertie and I had found pleasant companions and friends in John and Frank Bourne ever since we could remember. But for some time now John Bourne had been abroad, and of course Frank was almost constantly away at sea. Their mother had died in their childhood, and their father lived very much the life of a recluse; though, a year or two before, he had married again, and there was now another little son.

Mr. Bourne was not a rich man, and his sons, John and Frank, would have to make their way in the world by their own exertions, as they knew.

Meanwhile, in the eyes of people who see everything from a monetary point of view, Bertie and I had been sinking lower and lower in the social scale, until at length, instead of having any house and home of our own, however small, we could only afford to rent two rooms of one who, in former times, had been our mother's servant.

"What was that you said just now, Marian?" inquired Bertie, when she had finished her little performance.

"Where shall we get our next meal, Bertie?"

"Next meal!" repeated she, humming a lively tune, as she went and hung Frank's cap in its place -how she became possessed of it I had never asked. "And where from? Why, from the butcher's or the baker's, I suppose; or, if we intend turning vegetarians-as has seemed not unlikely lately-from the greengrocer's, perhaps?"

And now she came and dropped lazily on a hassock at my feet, and leaning her chin on her hand, and her elbow on my knee, she looked up at me thoughtfully, her pretty gay smile gradually fading, and presently she added

"I don't understand you, Marian.”

I softly stroked one dear little hand that was seeking mine with, as it seemed to me, a touch of misgiving. My glance rested on the small piquant almost perfect features, so full of life and variety in their expression-the little rosebud mouth, the fair clear brow, the rounded cheeks, naturally rather pale, the beautiful eyes in which I saw a dawning shadow; and then I turned my own eyes away, as I felt them filling with weak tears.

"We cannot get anything without money, darling." "And have we no money, then?"

"None, Bertie. I paid the last to Mrs. Robins this morning, and I had not enough by twopence." "I hope I can pay that. Do you owe anything else, Marian?

?"

"Nothing else, dear.”

A long silence.

It was a dreary day, early in December. Not a beam of sun had crept in at our little bay window since the morning of the day before. The sky was of a sad sober grey, with here and there a heavy rainclond. A chill wind swept along the quiet street, rustling uncomfortably the coats and cloaks of the passers-by, rattling the doors and windows dismally, and then dying away in a moan-only to rise all the more noisily and stormily a moment later.

“Why did you not tell me this before, Marian?' A moment's pause, and she continued, "And I have been doing nothing. But I thought we had enough money to live in reasonable comfort. Do you really mean that we have nothing more, dear Marian?"

"Nothing more, Bertie," I answered, sadly. "I have been wondering and wondering for a long time what I could do."

Bertie knit her brows in anxious thought. I leaned back in my chair, and rested. My task was over for the present. I had told Bertie what I had long dreaded telling her; and she had taken it, as I might have known she would, sensibly and quietly.

And as I lay looking at the dear little figure, in shabby brown merino dress, between me and the firelight, woman like, I allowed my thoughts to wander away. My little darling—what would her future be? Bright and happy, surely.

She had her head on my knee now, and her eyes were fixed intently on the fire.

So we sat till twilight began to gather. Then there came a knock at the street door, and we heard the milkman set down his can. The sound aroused us both, and Bertie started up, as if waking from a dream

"We will each think, and think, very hard indeed, what is to be done, Marian. You tell me your thought when I come back-and I will tell you mine." And she ran out of the room.

drawn, and the candles lighted, and everything snug and ready for the evening, and still she had not come in. I began to grow a little anxious.

I had been up to our small sleeping-room overhead, expecting to find Bertie sitting there, cogitating severely, in the cold, and growing darkness, and had discovered that the room was empty. However, Bertie was, as a rule, rather impulsive and erratic in her movements; she had gone out without telling me, as usual-that was all, I supposed.

At last the outer door opened. Yes, that was her light step; and in a moment she stood before me; a little colour now in her fresh cold cheeks, and her eyes glittering as if with unshed tears.

She bent and kissed me; then flung off her old waterproof cloak, and her hat that had weathered-I had almost said a hundred storms, and possibly it had-and sat down in the shabby merino to tea, pulling, as she took her seat, a paper bag towards her, which she had deposited upon the table at her

entrance.

"What have you got there, dear?'

"My run has done me good. I feel like braving all the world now. What have I got? Only some new buns, just as a little treat, to inaugurate our new style of living; do you understand?"

I was silent. Then, having said grace, I began to pour out tea, pondering many things meanwhile. Bertie got a gaily painted china plate from the little side cupboard, and laid the buns upon it. "Take one, Marian."

66

You want a new everyday dress very badly, dear child. I wish—”

"What do you wish, Marian?"

"That I could dress you as you ought to be dressed, darling." And I pushed away my plate. "I can't bear to see Mrs. Bourne and all of them look down upon you as they do."

"Some more tea, please, Marian; I am so thirsty. I have got such grand ideas in my mind, you can't imagine! I'll dress as I please by-and-by; and, for the present, Mrs. Bourne and her friends may look at me as they like."

I felt slightly uneasy. I had never even tried to control her. What was she thinking of doing?