a cab, and went to a near relation of ours, and remained with her all night. The following day she wrote home to tell of her disgrace and sin, saying, "My dear parents, I know this will well-nigh break your hearts; my burden is greater than I can bear, homeless, friendless, and ruined. O, may I hope for your sympathy and forgiveness? you will not refuse me a shelter, and spurn me from you. Have compassion on your heart-broken and penitent child." This was the first intimation we had of her condition, and it was like a sword entering our very soul, and filled the house with lamentation and woe. My husband has always been a kind father, but how he would

D

receive his disgraced child we could not tell: he is a proud man, and thinks much of his reputation. After reading the letter, he went almost distracted, and walked about the room all the night. In the morning, however, he was more composed, but did not once mention her name to me. I hoped all would be well, but had some misgivings. 'The next evening we were alone in the room below, and a gentle knock was heard at the door: it was quickly opened, and our dear pet lamb came in, tears streaming down her face, and falling down at her father's feet, she wept bitterly: then looking up, said, "You know all; can I hope for your forgiveness?" Kneeling down, I kissed her forehead, and said, "Yes, at least you shall have mine" (this it appears she quite expected). Her father sat motionless. Clasping her hands and weeping, she looked him in the face (such a look-I shall never forget it) and cried, "Dear father, will you not speak to -one word-only one word; my poor heart is so cold and heavy, can you forgive? Do speak, dear father!" she sobbed; "just one word." 'That word soon came; thrusting her from him, he answered, "No, never!" and rising, said, "Begone; leave my house at once: this is no longer your home, you are no longer my child;" and, opening the door, he bade her walk out, and never darken his door again. From that time to this he has never seen her face, nor has he mentioned her name. How can I die, and my child a castaway? Sir, can you help me in this my trouble?'

me,

I expressed my willingness to help her to the extent of my power, and devised many plans to bring about this reconciliation; but all failing, the question came, 'What's to be done now?' After some reflection, I hit upon a scheme, and taking the eldest daughter into my confidence, I explained it to her, and praying God to bless our efforts with success, I left the house, charging her to carry out my instructions most carefully.

At about four o'clock the succeeding afternoon I called again: the eldest daughter opened the door, and said, 'All is ready, and waiting for you.'

I was led up-stairs, and was introduced to the husband, whom I had not seen before. He was reading a little book to his wife, and was very much affected. After a little conversation, I said, ‘I suppose, Sir, your wife was like most mothers, and used to kiss the children, when they were young, before they went to rest, did she not?' 'O yes!' he replied, and since they have grown up, too.' 'Do you think she will ever give them another kiss?' I asked. 'No, never; it would not be prudent in this terrible affliction.' I then enquired as she felt her strength gradually leaving her-if she would not like to give a farewell kiss to her children, and writing some

words on the slate, she passed it to her husband; we both read it; it ran thus, 'Dear John, you must hold my hand and kiss them for me.' He looked somewhat confused, so I said, 'That's a good thought, it won't take long, I will call them up; they can go into the adjoining room, and come in one at a time.' When he had consented, I led the eldest daughter in; the father was holding the wife's hand in his; and placing his arm round her neck, kissed her, and said, 'Your mother will soon be gone, that kiss is from her.' The next in age was a young man, and kissing him in like manner, he said, 'James, that's from your mother'; so to each of his children did he impart the mother's farewell kiss.

He was then about to place his wife's hand under the bed-clothes, when I stepped into the other room for the disowned one, who appeared more dead than alive. I said, 'Come in.' 'O, Sir,' she replied, 'I shall faint!' 'No, no; you must not faint; we have no time for that,' I answered; and, taking her arm led her into the room, and holding out the girl's hand to the father, said, 'This, Sir, is the last of your children.' He was so surprised that he could not speak ; eyes flashed fire, and he looked at me furiously.

his

Silence pervaded the room, except for the sobbing of the penitent girl. I saw the mighty struggle which was going on in his breast between wounded pride, withered hopes and parental love; and addressing him again, said,' Sir, your wife is sinking fast, this is your "pet lamb -still holding her hand towards him;-" come, Sir, serve all alike.” Righteous feelings prevailed; and laying his wife's hand on the bed, he threw his arms around the poor girl's neck, and, with his head resting on her shoulder, burst into tears. The others began to weep; I bade them be silent. I was waiting for the kiss. In a few moments the father held up his daughter's head, and, stroking back the hair from her pale but beautiful face, pressed her lips with his and kissed her: 'That's one from your mother,' said he ; 'now there's two from your father; and he gave her two such kisses, the sound rang round the room and was to us all sweeter than any music. The pent-up feelings of the others could now no longer be restrained. They cried aloud, The Lord be praised!' and hastened from the room in tears. I then enquired of the father whether I should take the 'pet lamb' into another room, he replied, quickly, 'No, no! leave her at present in my charge.' This affecting scene was almost too much for the poor mother, and I thought it prudent to retire, promising the husband to call again. As I was leaving the room, the poor invalid beckoned to me, and taking up her pencil wrote on the slate a few words, and handed them to me: 'Lord,now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace.' After a few words of prayer, and bidding them good evening, I went

downstairs. The eldest daughter enquired, Is my sister to remain in the house?' To satisfy her and myself also, I returned to the bed-room. The young woman was sitting on the bed, being caressed by both father and mother. Addressing the father, I enquired if I should see the young woman safe to her lodgings. For a moment he could not speak; my question had evidently given him pain. No, Sir,' he said earnestly; she has two lodgings-one in this house, and the other in my heart. Having accomplished your object, you must now leave me to accomplish mine.'

A few days after this reconciliation the poor mother died, 'in sure and certain hope of everlasting life,' rejoicing in the thought that the 'pet lamb' was restored to the old home to comfort and cheer her father in his declining years.

JA

LESSONS FROM MOTHER EARTH.

BY THE REV. E. H. SUGDEN, B.A., B.Sc.

I.-WINTER.

ANUARY is popularly supposed to be almost a flowerless month; but the fact is very different. No less than five and twenty species of British wild flowers may be found blooming amidst its snows, and one or two of them will give us something to talk about in this paper; it being premised that the reader will understand very little of what is said, unless he will take the pains to get a specimen of the flower and examine it for himself.

At any rate, every one can manage to lay hands on a crocus, and it will not be a bad flower to start with, because its parts are large and can be easily distinguished. First take one of the narrow leaves and hold it up to the light. You will see that it is traversed from end to end by veins which run parallel to one another the whole way. Now pluck off the leaves until you have got out entire the long tube which constitutes the lower part of the purple flower. You have now a long tube broadening out at the top into a sort of vase, which is split up into six points or segments. Carefully note that number— six. Next make a careful slit down one side of the flower, so that you can turn it back and see what is inside. Towards the bottom you will find a sort of bag or pouch'; cut it across, and notice that it is divided into three cells, each of which contains a number of round, greenish bodies, destined in due time to be seeds, but known now as ovules. From the top of this threefold bag rises a long stalk, which reaches to the top of the flower, and ends in three graceful, club-shaped divisions with jagged edges. A little below the

level of this three-cleft stigma, as it is called, you notice, set at equal intervals round the inside of the flower, three pointed yellow bodies, growing on short stalks. These are little bags, and if you burst one of them when it is ripe, you will find it contains a yellow, sticky powder, which, as you probably know, is called pollen; and each grain of this powder is again a little bag containing fluid.

What, then, is the object of all these complicated arrangements? In a word, it is to produce fertile seed, seed that will grow. We have found at the bottom of the flower-tube and enclosed in their three-celled chamber, the ovules which are to be the seeds; but they will never be true seeds, able to grow into fresh plants, until they have come into contact with the yellow pollen-grains which we found in their three receptacles on the sides of the flower-tube; and this contact has to be effected through the three-cleft stigma, and the stalk which connects it with the chamber where the ovules lie concealed. But here there would seem to be a difficulty. The receptacles in which the pollen is stored lie lower down in the flower-tube than the top of the stigma, and so the pollen cannot get on the stigma; for, of course, when it ripens it falls downward, not upward. However, this is just what was intended in the making of the flower; it was not meant to fertilize itself, for in that case the resulting seeds would have been weak, and productive only of inferior plants; and so the parts are arranged in such a way that the ovules of a flower cannot be fertilized with the pollen of the same flower. How, then, is the work done? Well, watch a crocus for a little time on a fine day, and you will see. Here comes a bee, or a big fly of some sort, hunting for honey. He catches sight of the bright purple or yellow flower of the crocus, and attracted by it (and that's why the flower is coloured-not just to please our eyes), he buzzes up and gets into the tube and walks down it, searching about with his trunk for the delicious nectar which he knows lies hidden within the coloured splendour. And in his search he is quite certain to bump his head against one or other of the pollen-bags; and as the pollen grains are sticky, they fasten themselves on to his forehead, and away he goes, bedecked with their golden glory, to the next flower. But as he goes in, he can't help hitting his head against one of the divisions of the stigma which block up the entrance of the flower; and as they are covered with a treacly fluid, the pollen grains leave his head and stick on them. As soon as they find themselves there, they each push down a little rootlet, which finds its way all down the long stalk, and into the cell where the ovules are waiting for it. It then gropes about until it finds a little hole provided for the purpose in the ovule; it inserts itself into it, the pollen fluid rushes down the rootlet