The Editor is happy to announce the following subjects for the

New Year, and he trusts they will form a sufficiently attractive banquet for all his readers and their friends :

1. ORIGINAL STORIES:

Illustrative of the Persecutions endured by Protestants and Nonconformists. The first will be "The Hidden Bible, an Incident of the Times of the Inquisition.”

2. CHRISTIAN THOUGHT AND LIFE:

The Sabbath-School and the Bible. Faithful to the End. A Scotch
Sabbath. A Father's Kiss. "And then?" The Talking Book.
Immortality. The Conversion of Children. The Little Ones.
The Christian Heaven. Ministers' Sabbaths.
"Instead of the Fathers- the Children."

'To-day."
"Without Price."

Grace Preservative.

3. MINISTRIES OF MERCY:

The Little Pipe Makers. The Minister's Wife-a Retrospect.
Among the Sick Children. Agnes Jones.

Christian Civilization in England. Self-Conquest. Miss Stride. Jottings from a Pastor's Note-Book.

4. POPULAR TOPICS OF THE HOUR:

What have we to do with the Old Catholics?

"Erastianism—

What is it?" Bismarckism. Ultramontanism. Disestablishment.
How to get a good Minister.

5. STORIES FOR OUR CHILDREN:

A New Year's Gift. Story of a Cradle. Maud and Mattie; or, Two
Birthdays. Little Elsie; or, a Child's Faith. The Little Copperas
Gatherers. A Homeless Baby. The Old Fisherman's Story.
"Lots just like 'em." Joe Black.

6. MISCELLANEA:

Jenny's Journal. Female Blacksmiths. The Deacon's First and
Last Sermon. Judging by Appearances. The Memorial Hall.
A Woman's Prison. The Battle Field. The Massacre of Church
Music. Profaneness. French Politeness. The Glories of the
Needle. The Burial Service. Bethany. The Church of Christ
and the Church of Rome.

7. THOUGHTS-GRAVE AND GAY.

8. OUR BI-MONTHLY BUDGET OF CHURCH NEWS.

XT

man.

STORY OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

PART III.

'T was on the evening of the day that the doctor sat over the fire meditating on an idea which had come into his mind. This was no less than to take his old friend's son into his house as assistant to himself. Something must be done for him. It was of no use curing his body without easing his mind, and how could that be done while he was starving? The writing seemed a hopeless business. He was, no doubt, an active, clever young fellow, and would be a help to him, and he could afford it. But, on the other hand, there were difficulties-difficulties which every father will understand, and which seemed at first almost insurmountable. To admit a third into the sacred little home where the two were all in all to each other, was a serious matter, even though it might be the saving of the young Well, there is a French proverb which the doctor was fond of quoting: "Do what is right, whatever may happen;" and a text which was also a favourite of his: "In all thy ways acknowledge God, and He shall direct thy paths." These both seemed applicable on the present occasion, and with them in his mind he went to bed, and slept as soundly as a child. The next day the proposition was made to Paul, and accepted thankfully. The hope of work seemed to revive him wonderfully, and in a very short time we find him established in the doctor's surgery. The plan answered well. Perhaps it had been a father's foolish vanity that had made him fancy that no one could see his Ernestine without falling in love with her. She and Paul became excellent friends, but apparently nothing more; he seemed to look upon her as a child. The fact was, Paul had a good deal to think about; he was not happy. He had always felt that things were wrong with him, as they were right with his mother and the father of whom she used to talk to him; and now there was the good doctor, his every act and word testifying to the reality of his religion, and the bright, happy, lovely girl, finding her happiness and her brightness in its promises. What was the difference? What was it they had that he had not? It seemed something real and tangible enough, that peace and confidence in God's love; that wonderful faith that made all things easy; that light that shone upon their paths, while he groped in darkness; that inward contentment which was not, like his, at the mercy of circumstances, but altogether in

dependent of them. He saw it all, but how could he get it? Not by talking to the doctor, gladly as his old friend would have helped him ; these talks only showed more plainly the difference between them. Not by reading the Bible, for he could not find in it what they did ; in fact, it only puzzled him more, and he closed it in despair. In old times these things had not troubled him; he was easy enough, and felt the need of nothing; but either his poor old mother's influence, or the loss of wealth and all that he used to care for, or his illness, had robbed him of his former comfort, and had given him nothing in its place.

"You must go to the Fountain-head," said the doctor, one day, after a long talk. "Your soul needs a doctor, just as much as your body did when I found you lying nearly dead for want of help. You trusted in me and took what I gave you; can you not trust in the Great Physician?"

“And ought I to find what I want in this Book?” returned Paul, laying his hand on the Bible. But it is all Greek to me."

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"My friend," replied the doctor, suppose when my patients come to me I were to point them to my surgery and say, 'You are ill ; there is medicine, take what you want.' How many cures should I have? They need the physician as well as the physic, someone who understands the exact nature of their complaint, and the condition of the patient, as well as the properties of the remedy and the best way of applying it. Such a doctor you want, and such a one you may have."

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Paul did not reply, but he thought more and more on these matters, and at last we may infer that he took his friend's advice, for an expression of peace was observable in his face which had long been a stranger to it. Ernestine and her father noticed it, but asked no questions, only prayed for him as they had always done.

"I do think," said Paul, suddenly, one day as he was busy in the surgery, the doctor standing by, "that the cure is going on."

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I think so too," said his friend; "the symptoms are favourable." "How wonderful it is," resumed Paul," the infinite relief of feeling that we may give up our lives and all our concerns into the hands of One who is no strange unknown Being, but a Father watching over His children."

"Do you feel this, Paul?"

"I have got a glimmering of it," replied Paul, "and even that is rest."

The young man found many difficulties in his study of the Bible, and he was not one to pass them over. Many were the discussions in the doctor's library during these winter evenings, in which sometimes Ernestine joined, and even she not seldom helped by her simple trusting spirit and clear intelligence.

And Paul found, as all thoughtful students do, that there were difficulties that could not be got over, mysteries that could never be solved, but he also discovered that there is a great difference between mysteries that stagger us and mysteries that we may humbly and calmly leave. It is not only in God's word that we are required to believe what we cannot prove or even understand. As yet, in most things, "We see through a glass darkly." With our finite faculties, our ignorance, and imperfections is this strange? Paul found that there is a peculiar blessedness in believing where we cannot see, and in becoming, in faith, like the child at the feet of the Saviour. Meanwhile, winter was changing into spring, not only in the heart of the young man, but in the outward world. There were, in those days, green fields and trees round Spitalfields, as the name implies, and Ernestine would often ramble among them, bringing home wild flowers to deck their room. She had become much more thoughtful of late, though as gentle and loving as ever. There was a difference too, in Paul, the doctor thought, and then again he told himself it was fancy. His old fears and prophecies he had forgotten, and when one day the young man came to him in his library, with a grave face, Pierre Roussel was more surprised at what followed than my readers will be.

"I must leave you, sir," began Paul.

"Leave me; what for? To set up for yourself, and become a rival, eh? What's the matter?"

"It would be an ill return for your saving my life, body and soul, if I were to rob you of your daughter," replied the young man, looking down.

"My daughter! my little Ernestine !" repeated the father. I cannot let her go."

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'No,

I said so," exclaimed Paul, vehemently. "And you would not be so cruel, sir, as to ask me to stop here, day by day seeing more of her sweetness and goodness, her loveliness of face and character— loving her more and more without telling her so? You see, I must go."

Dr. Roussel did not answer; he only got up and walked up and

down the room. "My little daughter," he said, presently, as if to himself, "why, she is a mere child! And you cannot marry, young man, and what's the use of a long engagement? Why couldn't you have waited ?"

"I have not spoken to your daughter," said Paul; "but I cannot wait here without doing so. Could you, in my place?"

Again the doctor paced the room. "You are sure the child knows nothing of this ?" he asked.

And Paul repeated, "I have told her nothing."

"Wait till to-morrow," said Dr. Roussel, presently, "and I will speak to you again. If my little one does not think of you-and she cannot, she is too young to dream of lovers-it had better be as you say; you must go for a time; you will see other girls and forget her. You see, Paul, she is my only treasure, and she is happy with me; she does not want any one else."

When alone, the father sank into a reverie, only broken by the entrance of his daughter.

"What are you

“Papa, I have been looking for you," she said; doing here? If your patients don't want you, I do. Come into the garden, and see how everything is growing this lovely day."

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"Come here," he called, and she ran and knelt down before him. You will never leave your old father, will you, my pet?" he said. "No, papa," she replied, softly, looking down.

"Not till you are asked, eh?" he added, smiling. 'Where is Paul? Why can't he go with you into the garden?"

The fair face became crimson, as she replied, "I wanted you, papa." "Ma petite," said the doctor, "Paul has been in here talking to me; can you guess what about ?"

The girl only blushed yet deeper, and hid her face in her father's knee. But he made her look at him as he asked, gazing into her truthful eyes, "Ernestine, do you care for Paul?" There was no need to force an answer, looking at her tell-tale face. Yes, the father's fears had come true, as indeed might have been expected; and, as he consoled himself with reflecting, if he must have a son-inlaw, Paul was certainly the one he should choose. That evening all was arranged, Paul and Ernestine having had a walk, which they often looked back upon as the happiest in their lives. The doctor met them at the door.

"Can I ever thank you, sir?" cried the young man, grasping his hand.