IN the eastern shore of Yucatan, there is a spot peculiarly noted for the variety and density of its vegetation. At the head of a little cove, which sets in from the Gulf of Mexico, there is a little hill covered with large trees. These slope down almost precipitously on one side, and more gently in other directions, continuing in a deep, impassable morass.

At the foot of this hill, on its steepest side, there once sprang up a little flower. It was a strange flower, which is never found except in certain latitudes. It grows from the ground learly to perfection in a single day. Its leaves vere broad, but thin and delicately woven with tissue of veins and fibre. These leaves lay pon the ground, as if unable to support themelves. A single stem had shot up from among he leaves a foot or more in height, bearing pon its summit the half-opened bud of a large ly-shaped flower. The petals had just begun > show their soft, white velvet-richly chased nd delicately pencilled here and there with reaks and lines and spots and shades of imson-and a rich fragrance had begun to "eathe from the half-opened cup.

All at once the sun, which had been gradually proaching the horizon, sank beneath it, and rkness came down almost immediately upon I the forest. The last rays of light that had ruggled through the dense, dark leaves, had ayed upon the little flower, revealing its surssing loveliness, but leaving it unfinished, perfect, and alone in the dark night. The little flower was in despair. Alas!" she cried," why must the light and at that have brought me into being, and ich are so necessary to my existence, be ithdrawn at the very moment when I need iem most of all? Of what worth is my life,

I am not to be permitted to arrive at perection? And now the sun himself is extinguished, and I must perish unappreciated and unknown, without having served one good purpose of my creation, and without knowing of what I am capable!"

All at once she paused; for she heard a voice calling, "Child of the forest!"

By the star-light, and the little of daylight that still lingered, and by straining her young eyes, she saw that it was an old tree upon the

bank just above her that spoke an old mahogany-tree that she had often seen in the course of her brief life—an old and lofty tree, that lifted his huge, rough body high into the air, and threw his arms far and wide, covered with a great multitude of broad, shining leaves. Again the voice spoke : "Child of the forest! why weepest thou? Listen, little one. I am a thousand years old !”

"Years!" whispered the lily to herself," what are years ?"

"Was not the sun more beautiful,” continued the tree, "when, in the first part of your life, his beams poured forth unobstructed from over yonder bay, than when lately they could hardly peep through this forest behind us ?"

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"Think again," continued the tree. "We are not the only things that he looks upon. A single footstep might crush you" (the lily shuddered and trembled!) or a single whirlwind might prostrate me, and we should hardly be missed-for, look behind us-how thick the forest grows! And so it is in the world around —and all others need his light and warmth as much as we, Would you be so selfish as to leave them all to perish ?"

The lily hung her head in silence.

After a pause, the old tree resumed: “Think again! is it not better for you even as it is? Could you have borne the intensity of his heat much longer?"

The lily bethought herself of a strange weariness and weakness under which, during the latter part of her life, she had almost withered. "Ah," she sighed, "thus then my life must end!"

without hope for some, that their eyes would open one day to welcome the morning of the resurrection.

Nannerl's youngest child died. How she watched and tended it, never heeding herself!

Brother Conrad sat with me day and night during my illness; and when I began to recover, he would read to me for hours together in the Sacred Scriptures. We seemed never to weary of the blessed words. To me they were as refreshing draughts.

When I left my room for the first time, at the door I met Otho the robber. He seized my hands and pressed them to his lips. They say he had watched there morning, noon, and night, waiting to do any little service, and was not to be tempted from his post by entreaties

or remonstrances.

How could I have dreamed that Thou, O Lord, wouldst have called forth such streams for me from the rock!

They led me into the convent garden. I sat for an hour or two there in the sunshine. How the birds sang that day!

July 1.

Brother Conrad has taken my place in the hospital-I his, by the bedside. He is wondrous grateful and patient.

At times, with the fierceness of the fever, his mind wanders, and then he seems to dream himself engaged in mortal combat, either with the infidels or other fiercer foes, even the spirits which believe and hate; yet he seems scarcely ever to lose sight of Him who overcame by dying; at some moments appearing to cling to Him as a drowning man to a plank.

July 4.

This morning, as I watched beside him, he said, as if to himself,

"Yes, it is true! He has gone down to the depths for us, and is set on the heights for us. He that believeth hath everlasting LIFE! I believe; therefore I live-live for ever a life of unspeakable, undefiled, unfading joy. 'They

shall never perish.' 'He that believeth not is condemned already.' There is, then, no middle state between imperishable life and condemnation. Here we may pass from death unto life-THERE, there is a great gulf fixed which can not be crossed over. The fire of God's just wrath twice seen-in the cross, forsaking His own Son and in hell. His blood must be upon us either to cleanse or to condemn. Brother," he said, turning to me, "was the work of expiation finished on the cross?"

"Unquestionably," I replied; "having by Himself purged our sins, He is seated as one resting after a completed work, at the right hand of God."

"Then," he said, deliberately, fixing his pene. trating eyes on me, "there can be no purgatory. The cross is the only purgatory! For those who believe in it, no second purgatory is needed: for those who reject it, no second is possible—there remaineth no further sacrifice for sins."

I feared to engage him in debate just then, dreading recurrence of fever, but I conjured him to leave such dangerous speculations until his soundness of mind and body is restored.

He smiled, but said no more, desiring me to read to him from the 10th chapter of St. John. When I had closed the book, he said,

He is the Door as well as the Shepherd of the fold: the channel, as well as the source of life. Then, it is the Lord who unites us to the Church, not the Church to the Lord. Where He is, the Church is; where He is not, there is nothing but death."

I said, "The Church is the steward of the manifold grace of God."

"Yes!" he replied; "and it is required of stewards that they be found faithful. If, therefore, the Church, priests, sacraments, saints, seek to come between us and our God, they at once hide the light and cease to shine. In eclipsing they are darkened."

July 9.

IN the eastern shore of Yucatan, there is a spot peculiarly noted for the variety and density of its vegetation. At the head of a little cove, which sets in from the Gulf of Mexico, there is a little hill covered with large trees. These slope down almost precipitously on one side, and more gently in other directions, continuing in a deep, impassable morass.

At the foot of this hill, on its steepest side, there once sprang up a little flower. It was a strange flower, which is never found except in certain latitudes. It grows from the ground nearly to perfection in a single day. Its leaves were broad, but thin and delicately woven with a tissue of veins and fibre. These leaves lay upon the ground, as if unable to support themselves. A single stem had shot up from among the leaves a foot or more in height, bearing upon its summit the half-opened bud of a large lily-shaped flower. The petals had just begun to show their soft, white velvet-richly chased and delicately pencilled here and there with streaks and lines and spots and shades of crimson-and a rich fragrance had begun to breathe from the half-opened cup.

All at once the sun, which had been gradually approaching the horizon, sank beneath it, and darkness came down almost immediately upon all the forest. The last rays of light that had struggled through the dense, dark leaves, had played upon the little flower, revealing its surpassing loveliness, but leaving it unfinished, imperfect, and alone in the dark night.

The little flower was in despair. "Alas!" she cried," why must the light and heat that have brought me into being, and which are so necessary to my existence, be withdrawn at the very moment when I need them most of all? Of what worth is my life, if I am not to be permitted to arrive at perfection? And now the sun himself is extinguished, and I must perish unappreciated and unknown, without having served one good purpose of my creation, and without knowing of what I am capable!"

All at once she paused; for she heard a voice calling, "Child of the forest!"

By the star-light, and the little of daylight that still lingered, and by straining her young eyes, she saw that it was an old tree upon the

bank just above her that spoke an old mahogany-tree that she had often seen in the course of her brief life—an old and lofty tree, that lifted his huge, rough body high into the air, and threw his arms far and wide, covered with a great multitude of broad, shining leaves. Again the voice spoke : "Child of the forest! why weepest thou? Listen, little one. I am a thousand years old!"

"Years!" whispered the lily to herself, "what are years ?"

"Was not the sun more beautiful," continued the tree," when, in the first part of your life, his beams poured forth unobstructed from over yonder bay, than when lately they could hardly peep through this forest behind us?"

"Yes, he certainly was," replied the lily.

"I have stood here a thousand years," said the tree, "and even so he has always seemed to me more beautiful yonder, and so he will be again for his light is by no means extinguished. But he cannot rise, unless he first set."

The poor little lily pondered long and deeply upon this, but could not understand it.

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'Think again," continued the tree. "We are not the only things that he looks upon. A single footstep might crush you" (the lily shuddered and trembled!) "or a single whirlwind might prostrate me, and we should hardly be missed-for, look behind us-how thick the forest grows! And so it is in the world around --and all others need his light and warmth as much as we. Would you be so selfish as to leave them all to perish ?"

The lily hung her head in silence.

After a pause, the old tree resumed: "Think again! is it not better for you even as it is? Could you have borne the intensity of his heat much longer?"

The lily bethought herself of a strange weariness and weakness under which, during the latter part of her life, she had almost withered. "Ah," she sighed, "thus then my life must end!"

"You must

"Not so," replied the old tree. look forward to a better life. Our sun has indeed gone down, but it is only that he may shine upon other parts of the world. It is only that he may give you opportunity to acquire strength to bear his brighter rays. True, unless he comes again over yonder bay, your

life must end here-and mine too; for it is upon him that our life depends, and he must rise again before we can revive. But courage, little child of the forest! he will certainly, certainly come!"

As the old mahogany-tree spake thus, he flung his arms about in the night-breeze, and all his leaves seemed to whisper, "He will certainly, certainly come!"

But oh! how long the night seemed to the little flower-a whole lifetime! She shrank timidly away from the coarse, unsightly weeds that waved carelessly and fearlessly backwards and forwards, jeering at her weakness and fears. She trembled at the sight of the burning eyes of the beasts of prey that love darkness, as they stared at her through the brakes; and she listened in terror to the sound of their footsteps. She shuddered as she felt the slimy trail of the serpent over one of her leaves, or heard the heavy flapping wing of some foul night-bird over her head, or the buzzing of hideous insects about her face. She shivered in the cold fog, and was half stifled by the dank, foul vapour that crept up from the marsh. The tears gathered fast upon her face. "Old tree!" she sobbed, "I shall never see him again!"

Once more the leaves of the old mahogany. tree murmured, "He is coming! he is coming!" And far back in the forest countless little voices seemed whispering to one another, "He is coming, coming, coming!"

The little lily raised her head. How solemn to see those countless leafy dwellers in the forest standing in breathless silence, listening, listening!-waiting, waiting!-for the great life of the world! The lily gently turned her eye towards the water. No soft twilight-no long, slowly-changing dawn-announced the approach of day. But a quick flush spreading over the sky-a fleecy cloud suddenly blushing crimson-a flood of purple on the dancing waters-fierce flashes of golden light streaming far upwards-a burning mass of fire-and the day was come!

Joyfully did the little lily welcome the grateful light, and open wide her face. The tears were standing thick upon it; but the glorious sun looked down, and smiled upon her. He dipped his pencil in fresh and richer dye, and touched her pallid cheek, and turned every tear into a jewel, that sparkled like the rainbow. Her tears were gone for ever.

And "unto you that fear His name shall the Sun of Righteousness arise, with healing in His wings!" T.

ETER SIMONS was the son of a poor fisherman who lived in a solitary cottage, built of rough stone, on the steep side of a rock which faced the sea. Behind the cottage the dark jagged cliff slanted up to a great height: before it you might look straight down upon the sea, two hundred feet below. Steps cut in the solid rock, formed a winding path which led down to the seaside. On one side of the house, there was a stack of furze to serve for fuel; on the other side was a small level space, surrounded with poles, on which the fishermen hung their nets to dry. The front of the cottage was

covered with rows of dried fish, of different sorts, cut open, and all shrivelled and yellow; at the door hung the fisherman's great seaboots, and his rough blue coat lined with red stuff.

Peter was a lazy boy, and his father and mother used no means to correct his idle habits; but suffered him to spend his time as he pleased. Sometimes he would lie half the day on the ground before the door, just looking over the edge, to watch the curling foam of the waves among the broken rocks below; or throw down stones, to see them jump from ledge to ledge as they fell. When the weather was per