Though she was a mere baby, Caroline was evidently annoyed at this uncomplimentary speech.

"I hope a certain individual does not try to set this little thing against me," she said, in a doubtful tone.

"The idea!" I exclaimed, almost as scornfully as little May had done; "how can you lend your mind to such a wild fancy, Caroline? Why should she try to set her against any one; she is quite above it; and besides, the child of course prefers her so infinitely to any of us, that I am sure she never has the slightest cause for any feeling of jealousy."

"You are warm, my little Sophia," said Caroline; but this time I did not feel ashamed.

"Besides, Caroline," observed one of our schoolfellows, who was by no means aware of the dangerous ground she was treading on, "why, above all people, should she try to set her against you,-you, who never interfere with her by any chance, never want to have the child, and scarcely ever take any notice of her?"

"Pooh!" said Caroline, impatiently.

"I want to go," repeated May, who was now patting Caroline's cheek, by way of attracting her attention.

"What for?

"I want my Miss Christiana Frances; and she said she would open the drawer to-day, and let me look in it.” "What drawer?" inquired Caroline.

Upon this I explained that May had often asked to see her ayah's gowns, bangles, &c., but that Madame had not permitted this hitherto; now her leave had been obtained, and Frances was going to show them to her.

"Oh," said Caroline, whose natural disinclination to trouble herself with children was still strong within her, though she evidently wished just now, for obvious reasons, to stand well with little May. "Well, I suppose I must take this child in, as I promised;" and she rose, half reluctantly, saying, with a half-smile, "What little plagues children are!

"And so is ladies great plagues," exclaimed May; and then, delighted with her repartee, she repeated it with fits of baby laughter; and was carried off by Caroline, vociferating that ladies were great plagues.

I do not know that she was more droll and shrewd than many children of her age, but as she certainly was not much more than half their size, she seemed incomparably more 80; and to hear such a little atom bandy jokes with us, as she often did, was one of the most comical things possible.

THE SPRIG OF MOSS.

BY ANNA MENNELL.

In the solitary wilderness, under the shade of a juniper-tree, sits a wearied and disappointed prophet. His spirits are bowed down under the weight of gloomy and painful thoughts. The past is dark, and the future looks darker still. His mind is full of doubt and despondency. He dreads any further conflict; and, yielding to the impulse of a morbid and melancholy state of feeling, he exclaims, in a tone indicative of the utter abandonment of hope, “It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life, for I am not better than my fathers."

Ah! this wish to escape from the trials of earth is not peculiar to this desert-wanderer. It has been echoed by the complaint of many a tried and toilworn servant of the Most High. Some, in the plaintive language of the harassed psalmist, have said, “Oh that I had wings like a dove, for then would I flee away and be at rest;" and others, like Jonah, have murmured beside their withered gourds, and exclaimed with impetuous anger, “It is better for me to die than to live."

We have never, perhaps, in our most dejected moments, gone so far as this. Yet there are few thoughtful and sensitive spirits who have not, at times, felt heart-wearied of the cares and responsibilities of life, and longed with intensity of desire for immediate relief from their pressure. Frustrated plans-daily anxieties unrequited labours-heavy disappointments-broken friendships-and unexpected trials; these, and other bitter experiences, so warp the judgment and disturb the affections, that, resolutely turning a deaf ear to the sweet pleadings of hope, we listen to the enervating suggestions of despondency,

until we have lost all moral courage, and are utterly unable to bear up under our difficulties. We sit down like an exhausted traveller by the roadside, so worn out by constant exertion, and repeated failures, that all thought and emotion seem concentrated in the one ardent and irrepressible wish that we were safe at home. Through the murky medium of our imagination, all around us and before us looks cheerless and gloomy; objects are distorted, and dangers are magnified, and we would fain find ourselves beneath a serener atmosphere, where "the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary be at rest.”

It is possible, dear reader, that at the present moment you are thus shrinking from the toil and turmoil of life, and are sighing for an emancipation from its evils. Either the trying dispensations of Providence towards you, or the stern antagonism of conflicting principles within you, have so saddened and crushed your spirits, that the grasshopper has become a burden to you, and, like a bending reed, you are agitated by every slight and passing breeze.

Now it were easy to find fault with this excessive timidity, this mental gloom and apprehensiveness; it were easy to point out the selfishness of your regrets, and the unreasonableness of your distrust; and the language of reproof would not, perhaps, be deemed undeserved. But it is not harsh words, dear reader, but soothing ones, that you want just now. You re

quire sympathy rather than censure. The tired child, fretful through very weariness, should not be angrily rebuked, nor coldly bidden to be quiet, but gently hushed to rest in its mother's arms. It is of no use to chide the drooping pilgrim for faint-heartedness and delay, when he needs repose to steady his trembling nerves, and to recruit his overtasked energies. He must be strengthened, instead of scolded.

angel touched Elijah as he sat under the juniper-tree, and said unto him, "Arise, and eat ;" and he looked,

and behold there was a cake baken on the coals, and a cruse of water at his head.

Weary and sorrowful reader, does not your heart respond to these remarks? Do you not feel that such treatment as this is exactly adapted to one in your position? But where, you ask, in a world like this can you look for such endeared sympathy? You would hardly like to unfold the secret recesses of your grief to another's eye; and if even you were to do so, you hardly believe that the result would compensate you for the disclosure. Some would admonish; some would be indifferent; others would misunderstand; and a few would pity you. You glance round the whole circle of your acquaintance, and you come back again to yourself, with these words upon your quivering lips, "The heart knoweth its own bitterness."

And in the meanwhile you have forgotten-as we so often forget that ever-present Friend who has so identified you with Himself as to make all your sorrows and solicitudes his own; and you are so absorbed in pensive self-communing, that you do not hear his voice saying unto you, in tones of more than mortal tenderness," Come unto Me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Oh, if you would only go to Him! You need not fear to approach Him, for He will not "break the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax;" but He will gather you with his arms, and fold you in his embrace, and as one whom his mother comforteth, so will He comfort you. Your heart may be one of those,

"So perilously fashioned, that for them

God's touch alone hath gentleness enough

To waken, and not break, the thrilling strings."

But you may safely intrust it to Christ's hands; for He healeth the broken-hearted, and gives unto them that mourn in Zion "the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness." Then, cast all your care upon

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Him, for He careth for you. Sit with Mary at his feet; nay, lean like John upon his bosom, and tell Him freely and frankly how you feel, and what are the causes of your disquietude. He loves to listen to you, and to help you. And even when He might justly remonstrate and reprove, He makes every possible allowance for your imperfect services, and puts in, with tender considerateness, this plea for you, The spirit, indeed, is willing, but the flesh is weak;" for He knoweth your frame; He remembers that you are dust. Well may you rejoice in the remembrance that you have not a High Priest who cannot be touched with the feeling of your infirmities, but who was in all points tempted like as you are; and in that he Himself hath suffered, being tempted, He is able to succour them that are tempted. How it solaces your grief to have it shared by a sympathizing Saviour! How it lightens your heart when He takes off its burden and carries it for you! How it reanimates your spirit to hear Him assure you that in all your afflictions He is afflicted; that through the chequered path of life He is ever with you, and will never leave you nor forsake you; and that all things, however inexplicable they may appear to the eye of sense, are really working together for your ultimate good!

You can look upon life now from a fresh standpoint the felt presence of Jesus; and revived and refreshed by intercourse with Him, it seems to present to you a little less dreary aspect than it wore just now. It has not changed, bnt you have. In waiting upon God, and quietly reposing in his love, you have renewed your strength, and realized the fulfilment of the promise, that He giveth power to the faint; and if your troubles have not diminished, you are the better able to meet and to sustain them. It is with a lighter step, and a braver spirit, that you set out once more in your lonely path.

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