66

Darling, you are not going to die," I said; "I hope you will be quite well again to-morrow.'

"I do not want to be well," she answered; "I want so much to go to heaven."

I could not answer her; I could not understand her. I had been lately trying to do what I knew to be right, and had found so much sin still mingled with my best performances, that my only feeling, in looking forward to death, was fear. I could not stand before God in my own righteousness, and I would not believe that I needed the imputed righteousness of another.

After a long silence, I said, "Edith, do you not fear that judgment of which we have so often spoken ?"

66

me.

"No," she answered firmly; "for I am sure Jesus loves

"And how does that remove your fear?" I asked.

"Because Jesus has taken all my sins away, and God will not punish me; but do please read to me in the Bible about it."

"What shall I read?" I asked. Edith chose the fifty-third of Isaiah, and I read the chapter without one word of comment. After I had closed the book, and my little charge had sunk to sleep, some of the words returned again and again to my mind. "The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all." "He bore the sins of many." I could not lay hold of this truth, neither could I banish the subject from my mind.

Mrs. Burton came in gently, and finding that Edith slept, she insisted on my going with her to the sitting-room, saying I looked pale and tired. Mr. Burton was there; he was pacing up and down the room, but he turned immediately to me and inquired about Edith. I answered that she was asleep, and seemed quite easy; and Mrs. Burton added, "Oh! she will be quite well to-morrow."

I cannot tell why it was that I shrank from the easy, cheerful manner in which these words were uttered; and something seemed to whisper that the little girl was right, and that she was going soon to exchange her earthly for an eternal home; still, I would not alarm the parents; though when the morning found her too ill to rise, I begged Mrs. Burton to send, without delay, for a medical man. This gentleman, far from confirming my fears, assured the mother that there was very little the matter, and that his little favourite would be running about again in a day or two.

Edith heard what he said, and when he had left the room, she called me to her. "Dear Miss Melville, please tell him not to say that to papa. I want him to know that I shall soon

die; because if he waits every day to see me get well, he will be so very, very sorry when it is too late."

'But, darling," I said, "the doctor must know better than you, and he says you will recover."

She made no answer for some minutes, then she said, "I must tell papa myself."

I thought, if it must be told, it were better she should tell him herself; so I made no answer, but began to sing a very favourite hymn of Edith's,

"There is a happy land,

Far, far away."

She lay quite still till I had finished, and I thought she was asleep; but when I leaned over to arrange her pillows more comfortably, I found her earnest eyes were fixed on the bright blue sky, for the bed was near the window. "Where

is Rosa?" she asked, suddenly. I told her Mrs. Burton had sent Rosa to spend a few days with her aunt.

"I wish so much to see Rosa," she answered; "I want to talk to her. I am afraid she does not love Jesus, and, if not, I shall never see her again.'

"But, Edith," I said, "will you not try to think that what your mamma wishes must be right?"

"I am sure," she replied, "that dear mamma only meant to be kind; but then she thinks I shall get well again, and I never shall; and I want to tell Rosa she must ask Jesus to teach her to love Him, for she cannot love Him unless He teaches her."

"Cannot I tell Rosa this for you?" Edith raised herself on her elbow. "This is what you must tell Rosa," she said, speaking very emphatically, "that her heart is very wicked, and she cannot please God, and she deserves to be sent to hell; but God is very good, and He sent his Son Jesus to die instead of us; and now all we have to do is just to believe that Jesus bore our sins, and all who believe this are the children of God, and will go to heaven. But she cannot believe in Jesus unless God's Spirit teaches her, and she must ask God every day to put his Spirit into her heart, to make her believe; and if she believes Jesus died for her, she will be obliged to love Him."

Edith sunk back, her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashing, and I wrote down with my pencil what she had said; I then read it over to her slowly. "That is right," she said, "please tell Rosa that; and now ask papa to come to me."

As she spoke Mrs. Burton entered the room; and leaving the child with her mother, I hastened to tell Mr. Burton

Edith was asking for him. He returned with me to the room; she was lying quite placidly, with her own little hand in her mother's, but the moment she saw her father she put out her arms to embrace him. "Dear papa," she said feebly, "I know now that Jesus died for me!" the little arms fell back, and our sweet Edith was a corpse.

I pass over, for I cannot describe, the anguish of the next few days. Mr. and Mrs. Burton bore their heavy trial with Christian submission; for myself this was a bitter sorrow, and I murmured and repined exceedingly; even after the funeral, when we had returned to our daily round of duties, I grieved deeply. Rosa was very different to Edith, she often endeavoured to obtain her own will, and when reproved was sullen and obstinate, and I found that I had little real influence over her; my spirits were greatly depressed, and I gave myself up to idle longings after my old home, and fixed it resolutely in my own mind that my lot was a very hard one. I know now that much of my unhappiness arose from a want of peace with God; Edith's death had alarmed me, and her dying message was always ringing in my ears. I read this message to Rosa, but she did not appear to heed; and I determined to put away all these gloomy thoughts from my mind, persuading myself they were the cause of my depression.

In this attempt I could not succeed, and I finally made up my mind to seize the first opportunity of speaking to Mr. Burton.

One day, some months after Edith's death, Mrs. Burton was from home, and I determined to read what I had written from her dying lips to him. After putting Rosa to bed, I returned to the room where I had left him; he was pacing up and down, deep in thought; I did not like to disturb him, and taking a book sat down by the window; presently he ceased his walk and came up to me. "I have been thinking so much of Edith to-night," he said, "and regretting so much that I did not think there was any danger. I seem not to know enough of the state of her mind; do you think she knew she was dying?"

66

Oh, yes," I replied; "she knew it well, and I have often wished to communicate to you a message she left with me for Rosa:" so saying, I drew out my pocket-book, and read what I had written.

66

Thank God," he exclaimed, "for this evidence of her faith and hope; of course, Miss Melville, you have given this message to Rosa."

"Yes, sir," I said; "I read this to Rosa long ago; but indeed I cannot understand it myself."

46

Pray to God to teach you," he answered, and left the room; he seemed too much agitated for conversation.

That winter was very severe, and I had been suffering much from a violent cough, but refused to see a medical man, refused even to confess that I felt ill, and with most strange infatuation refused to abstain from my daily walks with Rosa.

One morning, we had rambled farther than I was aware, and I found we must hasten home to be in time for dinner. I was weaker than I thought, and on reaching home I tottered into the house, and fell fainting on the floor of my bedroom; and here Hannah found me, when she came to offer me assistance in dressing, with the blood oozing from my mouth; for I had broken a blood-vessel, either in my fall or from the exertion of walking quickly in my feeble state. I was laid in bed, and everything done that was possible; but for many days I was in great danger, though the anguish of mind I endured rendered my bodily suffering as nothing to me. I could get no rest; there was nothing before my mind but a certain fearful looking-for of judgment.

But at length it pleased God to bring Edith's words with power to my mind: "All we have to do, is to believe that Jesus bore our sins; and in his rich mercy He enabled me to cast myself, as a lost perishing sinner, at the foot of his cross, satisfied to be saved only by free grace. How insignificant was now all my bodily suffering; the joy and peace of believing, the happy assurance that I was a child of God, made my sick room the happiest place in the world to me,it seemed the very gate of heaven.

It was some weeks before I was able to resume my duties with Rosa, but it was with very changed feelings that I recommenced our studies. No longer under the influence of depressing thoughts, my heart seemed filled with thankfulness; I was ready to exclaim with the Psalmist, "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever."

JESSIE.

THE HILL DIFFICULTY.

DIFFICULTIES are to be expected in the Christian life. By analogy with worldly experience this is easily established. In a worldly point of view, there is nothing great which can be reached or gained without persevering, ardent, and painful exertion. Unfold to me any scheme of an earthly character, and tell me that its provisions are large, that its project is noble, that its results when secured will be on the most extensive scale-and I am certain, that before that scheme can be properly carried out, there will be many difficulties to overcome; there must be a large expenditure of daily, persevering, and costly exertion. From the fact that the project is a great one, I infer these difficulties; I infer this expenditure of effort; I infer this prolonged, costly process; I infer this extended time before the achievement can be made.

If it is so in a worldly point of view, it is also the same in a heavenly. If there is nothing great of an earthly character which does not require much painful and persevering effort, so there is nothing of a heavenly kind which does not much more require this painful and persevering effort. From the very nature of the case it must be so. For what is it that the Christian sets before him as his enterprise? It is nothing small, nothing trifling. Take all the schemes which have ever called forth man's ambition; all the enterprises for which human blood, and human powers, and human skill, and worldly wealth, and all the resources of man, have been lavishly expended, and then compare them with the concerns of the soul, compare them with the enterprise of the sinner's salvation, compare them with the great endeavour to glorify God, and to attain heaven-oh, they fade away into nothing, into a child's play, into an infant's toy! There is nothing great, nothing noble, in the things