"I hate walking," answered Gertrude, "especially without an object, and I seldom have one."

"Make one, then," he said, cheerfully; "can't you pay some morning visits ?"

"There is hardly anybody, with the exception of Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Bertrend, to visit around us; only a few elderly ladies besides, and some regular gossips; there is nothing to be gained from such acquaintances."

"Yes there is," said the doctor, "there is change of scene and thought, if there be nothing else. Almost any society, provided it be not positively injurious, is better than too much solitude and inactivity. A few romping children, for instance, are very beneficial at times."

Gertrude smiled, but it was the smile of amusement, not of assent. "I am sure I could not bear the noise of children," she said, "my nerves are not strong enough. Why, there is my cousin George, I quite dread his return from school to-morrow; he makes the house in a perfect uproar when he is in it; and I am glad to creep anywhere out of his way."

"He has high spirits, I suppose, like most school boys when they are let loose."

"And mine are generally rather low, said Gertrude, “so that we do not at all suit each other. I cannot do with much bustle; I am easily excited, and a little thing soon upsets me." “Your aunt is a very quiet companion, I should think.” "She is too quiet," said Gertrude, "and although she is very kind to me, we have not many ideas in common. Her time, too, is very much occupied, for uncle seldom leaves his room." "Do you ever sit with him ?"

"Sometimes, but not often, for he is very irritable and impatient; besides, I find a sick room so depressing to my feelings." "And they are easily depressed, I imagine," remarked the doctor.

"Yes, indeed," said Gertrude, apparently rather pleased than otherwise, that Dr. Etherington thought so; "I was never of a lively, sanguine temperament, like some persons, and I think I grow worse in this respect instead of better."

"No marvel that," thought the doctor, "with your mode of

life."

"I have nothing you see that interests me," continued Gertrude, "nothing that I really care about. I wish I lived in London, for there is always something stirring there to keep one from being low spirited. I think if I always live here, I shall waste away to a shadow from mere ennui."

Gertrude spoke playfully, but her remarks had more truth in them than the doctor liked. He put on a grave, professional

air, and then said in a frank, pleasant tone, "I think, before I go, you must let me prescribe for you."

Their conversation was then interrupted, but it was renewed again towards the close of the evening, when Gertrude and Dr. Etherington took a few turns round the garden, not so much for the purpose of enjoying the cool evening air, as of talking about Gertrude's mother. Gertrude had frequently longed to hear some account of her mother's last hours, and this wish had become stronger since she had felt a deeper interest in religious things, for she knew that her mother was a lovely, exemplary Christian. Mrs. Hayward had died abroad, when on a visit to some distant relatives for the sake of her health, and Dr. Etherington was the only English, and the only Christian friend who was with her then; consequently, Gertrude hoped to gather many precious little reminiscences from his lips. She had of course heard several particulars of the sad event, but it was just after its occurrence, when she was too young to understand them, or appreciate their value.

Her expectations were not disappointed. Dr. Etherington was a man of sterling and deep-feeling piety, and his simple and minute narrative brought the tears to Gertrude's eyes, and the bright flush to her cheeks. When he had finished his touching recital, and Gertrude, deeply affected, was expressing her regret for the loss of such a parent, he gently reminded her of that heavenly and better Friend, who never leaves his children; and of the cheering anticipation we have of an everlasting re-union with those whom we love.

Gertrude sighed. " "Ah,” she said, "if I were quite sure that I should meet mamma again."

"If you trust in that Saviour in whom she trusted," began Dr. Etherington, encouragingly.

"Yes, I know that," interrupted Gertrude, "and I think I do trust in Him, but my mind is so dark and clouded; my hopes are so dim and uncertain; I find but little joy and peace in believing."

"Then shall we know if we follow on to know the Lord," responded her kind friend; "you must not be discouraged; the twilight comes before the perfect daylight! look simply to Christ and strive to do his will, and then you need not fear."

A servant came just then to summon them to an early supper, and as soon as that repast was over, Gertrude and her aunt took their leave. As Dr. Etherington shook hands with them, and bade them goodbye, he said to Gertrude, "I am sorry I shall not be able to see you again this time; but I will send you a prescription in the morning, which I am sure will exactly suit you, and with God's blessing upon it, do you much good."

Gertrude thanked him, and they parted. She had full confidence in Dr. Etherington's medical skill, for he was acknowledged to be very clever; and he was well acquainted with her constitution, having attended her from her infancy.

The next morning, as Gertrude sat alone after breakfast, reading, the housemaid came in with a letter for her, which Dr. Etherington's servant had just brought. "Oh," said Gertrude to herself, "I suppose it is the prescription which he promised

me."

She opened the envelope, and glanced at the contents. While doing so her colour rapidly changed; she looked surprised, and then angry; and the next minute, the unfortunate sheet of paper was thrown indignantly across the table.

THE PURPOSES OF LIFE.

A DELICATE shell, thrown upon the banks of time by the ocean of eternity, a vessel on the ocean, a tender plant, a stately tree, a bubble, the grains of sand in an hour glass-such are a few of the similies often used as descriptive of man's life on earth. And by one, who, endowed with the poet's purest, noblest attribute, truth, has touched with no trembling hand the poet's harp, life is beautifully compared to a little path, chequered with sunshine and shadow; here soft and mossy, there rugged and thorny-on either side trees, plants, and flowers; some fair and good, others deceitful and poisonous-narrow at its commencement, and widening by degrees, until, in the gloom of the overhanging juniper and cypress trees, it stops at the door of death, the portal of the grave.

But the brief space of time which is allotted to man in this world, has never been more accurately pictured than in the words of St. James: "What is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away."

Of the principle of vitality within us how little do we understand; why it should be so entirely beyond our control, why at our birth we should receive, and at our death resign it involuntarily, is incomprehensible. We can neither fathom its mystery, nor grasp its reality. This only is it given us to know, that the Triune God, having formed man of the dust of the earth, after the heavenly image, "breathed into him. the breath of life, and man became a living soul;" and that while this Divine essence animates our mortal frame, so long we live, and move, and have our being.

But not alone that we should enjoy for a time this state of consciousness, and then return to the earth whence we were taken, was this first gift bestowed on us; else were our existence aimless, and by reason only should we be superior to the beasts that perish. Life is an unfinished state; it is a period of longing, yearning, seeking for a something in the future to supply the want of which every one is conscious in the present; it is a time of restlessness and unsatisfied desire. Each of us has some object in view, towards the attainment of which every effort is directed; and whether it be ambition of wealth, fame, or power, or whether it be but the wish for ease and quietness, on its acquisition we place all our hopes of happiness. Seldom is the object gained; and if it do occasionally become our own, anticipation has so exaggerated the gratification of possession, that the disappointment is proportionably greater than the pleasure; and thus to many their existence becomes a continual weariness.

Not thus would it be if life were spent in the fulfilment of its duties. These duties are manifold. The first is, that we are required to pay to God, our Almighty Creator, Preserver, and Benefactor. Thus briefly and emphatically it has been summed up: "Our duty towards God, is to believe in Him, to fear Him, and to love Him, with all our heart, with all our mind,

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with all our soul, and with all our strength; to worship Him, to give Him thanks, to put our whole trust in Him, to call upon Him, to honour his holy Name and his Word, and to serve Him truly all the days of our life." Difficult, most difficult, is the rendering of this duty; and years of uninterrupted service would not pay it, had not the great Fulfiller of the law substituted his perfect obedience for our deficiencies. His strength is sufficient for us; and to those who ask in faith He gives his grace, that they may tread the narrow path.

Little less important is that we owe our neighbour; which enjoins kindly thoughts as well as honest actions. That which is inconsistent with Christian charity, is a sin against the law of kindness and of love which is binding on every individual of the great human family. And not only is the open injury denounced, but the hidden selfishness which leads to the preference of our own interest before that of our neighbour, is forbidden in the Word of our universal Father. He who said, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thine heart, is the first and great commandment," said also, "and the second is like unto it-Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.”

To ourselves too, much is due. Each of us possesses that which is of incalculably greater value than the wealth of worlds- -an immortal soul. The injunction is to every one, "Work out your own salvation; " and towards this result every effort, every action of our life should tend. Time has an end, eternity is FOR EVER!

And because time is so short, because our thread of life is so fragile, and so often broken before "three score years and ten" have taught the falsity of earthly things, is the precept given, "Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth." They who wait till every other source of happiness is closed against them; who are driven, as it were, by their utter deso