brought face to face with the impious pomp and luxury of the persecutor of the saints. He feared that, by some wild word or deed, he might imperil the cause he had at heart. So he hailed a waterman who was guiding his little boat down the tranquil stream in the waning light. The boat was soon brought to the place where the Inquisitor had landed from his barge, and Juan, after shaking the dust from his feet, both literally and metaphorically, sprang into it.

The popular ideal of a persecutor is very far from the truth. At the word there rises before most minds the vision of a lean, pale-faced, fierce-eyed monk, whose frame is worn with fasting, and his scourge red with his own blood. He is a fanatic - pitiless, passionate, narrow-minded, perhaps half insane-but penetrated to the very core of his being with intense zeal for his Church's interest, and prepared in her service both to inflict and to endure all things

Very unlike this ideal were most of the great persecutors who carried out the behests of Antichrist. They were generally able men. But they were pre-eminently men wise in their generation, men of their generation, men who "loved this present world." They gave the Church the service of strong hand and skilful brain that she needed; and she gave them in return, "gold, and silver, and precious stones, and pearls; and fine linen, and purple, and silk, and scarlet; and all sweet wood; and all manner of vessels of ivory, and all manner of vessels of most precious wood, and of brass, and of iron, and marble; and cinnamon, and odours, and ointment, and frankincense; and wine, and oil, and fine flour, and wheat; and beasts, and sheep, and horses and chariots,

and slaves and souls of men." It was for these things, not for abstract ideas, not for high places in heaven, that they tortured and murdered the saints of God. Whilst the cry of the oppressed reached the ears of the Most High, those who were "wearing them out" lived in unhallowed luxury, in degrading sensuality. Gonzales de Munebraga was a good specimen of the class to which he belonged-he was no exceptional case.

Nor was Fray Sebastian anything but an ordinary character. He was amiable, good-natured, free from gross vices-what is usually called "well disposed." But he "loved wine and oil," and to obtain what he loved he was willing to become the servant and the flatterer of worse men than himself, at the terrible risk of sinking to their level.

With all the force of his strong nature Don Juan Alvarez loathed Munebraga, and scorned Fray Sebastian. Gradually a strange alteration appeared to come over the little book he constantly studied-his brother's Spanish Testament. The words of promise, and hope, and comfort, in which he used to delight, seemed to be blotted from its pages; while ever more and more those pages were filled with fearful threatenings and denunciations of doom—against hypocritical scribes and Pharisees, false teachers and wicked high priests-against great Babylon, the mother of abominations. The peacebreathing, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do," grew fainter and more faint, until at last it faded completely from his memory; while there stood out before him night and day, in characters of fire, "Serpents, generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of hell?"

T is a lovely evening. The rays of the seting sun, like bands of burnished gold, glittering on the ever-restless ocean, are giving their farewell kiss for the day. In a little town on the west coast of Schleswig we find Heinrich Schröder again. He has altered very much in appearance since we saw him last. He has been here for several years. He has grown much taller and stronger; the sun and exposure to the weather have browned his face; a moustache shades his lips. From boyhood he has grown into manhood. His path in life has neither been smooth nor pleasant; he has experienced a good many ups and downs in the world since he left Mr. Winter's employment. Sometimes fortunate; sometimes the reverse. At one time, only a little unjust; at another, very dishonest in his conduct towards his employers. First he was a waiter in a hotel; then an apprentice in a baker's shop; afterwards he obtained work in a writer's office. But he was not satisfied with

any of these either the wages were too small, the work too hard, or the treatment not kind and friendly enough. We now find him in the situation of coachman to a doctor. He ought to be happy and contented, for his position is a most comfortable one in every respect; but he is neither. True contentment and peace of mind must spring from a good conscience and an honest heart.

Heinrich's heart, alas! has not changed for the better. He strives to keep up an appearance of uprightness before men; having found out, from sad experience, that the fruits of dishonesty are very bitter, he is much on his guard now. He deceives his present master, but to a small extent, taking only a few more groschens for corn, &c., than he requires to pay; and as he appropriates less money in this way than many others in similar circumstances do, he considers himself trustworthy and honourable upon the whole. A broad band of ice surrounds his conscience, called "self-righteousness."

The tide is far out. Shall they sit in their boat and patiently wait for the inflowing tide? The distance which separates them from the island appears so short, is it not practicable to walk there? Some little chan

Heinrich lives in a house very near the sea. Have you ever seen the sea-ever watched its ceaseless commotion, and listened to the roaring of its foaming waves, as they dash impetuously upon the shore? Or, at another time, looked with delight upon it, when no wave rippled its surface-reflecting, like a mirror, the beauty of the surrounding scenery? As we look into the waters of the vast deep, are we not forcibly reminded of the heart of man? Heinrich stands often upon the shore; but as he looks, with a vacant eye, he does not observe the constant change of colour and motion-he sees only the same tiresome, uninteresting water. He whose heart is poor, has no power either to see far or discern Nature's many voices.

We find Heinrich to-day standing by the sea.

Suddenly he turns round. Some one has touched him upon the shoulder. It is his companion, Johann, also a coachman, with whom he has been for some time on intimate terms-a merry young fellow, whose eyes sparkle with the fresh bloom of youth.

"Do you know, Heinrich, that we have a holiday tomorrow? We must go somewhere. I have long wished to make an excursion to those islands. We can both row well; let us take a boat and row over to one of them."

"Oh, what an absurd idea! There is nothing interesting to be seen there; no restaurant, where we can eat and drink; no games; no dancing to be had there, I am pretty sure."

"But there is something worth seeing. Yonder pretty maidens grow-I had almost said upon the trees, but unfortunately there are no trees to be seen. And do you imagine that the people would not give us anything to eat or drink? I assure you, they would divide their last morsel with their guests."

After a considerable time spent in arguing the point, Heinrich has at last given his consent to go; and after having arranged to start the following afternoon, the friends separate.

At the hour appointed we find them both seated in the boat. Soon they have to struggle against contrary winds; and shortly before reaching the object of their journey, a dead calm sets in. Now they can proceed no further, their little boat has touched the sand. They cast anchor, and consult together what they should do.

have to wade through slime and mud occasionally; but that will not inconvenience them much. The island is so near, they can distinguish the different houses. They can't fail to find their way, and in a quarter of an hour they can be there. The boat is safely anchored; and in the morning they could easily go out to her in a small boat. And now, forwards! Without further consideration, the two friends leap from the boat and begin their walk.

They have not proceeded far when they find themselves enveloped in a dense fog-so dense that they can scarcely see a few yards in advance. Such fogs are by no means an unusual occurrence here; but to-day it has come on so very suddenly, one can scarcely tell from whence it has come-from above or below.

Heinrich and Johann look helplessly at each other. Land and their little boat have alike disappeared from their sight. Although they are nearer the latter than the former, still the land might be the more easily reached of the two. If only able to keep the right direction, they ought to arrive at the island in a very short time. There is therefore no need to be alarmed-forwards!

But going forwards is not so easy as they anticipated. A channel of water obstructs their way. In endeavouring to find a place narrow enough to leap over, they spend a considerable time going first to the right then to the left. And now they both feel, with secret anguish, that they can scarcely have failed to lose their direction by thus wandering up and down. In as composed a voice as possible, Heinrich asks,

"Do you know where the island lies? I feel quite puzzled; it seems to me as if we had been running round in a circle."

"Alas! I have also no idea," Johann exclaimed, in a voice trembling with emotion.

Hand in hand, for fear they might lose each other in the thick fog, they commence their walk anew. With cautious steps they proceed, not knowing if the road they take will lead them to the friendly island or to the deadly embrace of the sea. Heinrich tries to hum a tune; but the effort nearly chokes him, so onwards they go in silence.

The fog begins to disperse; but the veil, partially lifted, has brought to view a terrible sight. The channels of water have become deeper and broader. Here and there several had joined together and now form broad streams. The tide is flowing in slowly indeed, but surely, threatening certain death to any intruders upon her domain.

The fog disappears almost as suddenly as it came. Twilight is fast deepening into night, but Johann and Heinrich have seen enough to convince them that there

is no hope of being able to reach the island on foot. They can now see the island indeed, but much further from them than when first they had begun their wanderings. Are those lights in the cottages yonder but to enable them to see more plainly their approaching destruction, as death stealthily draws nearer and nearer ! Who can tell the horrors of such a death! Suddenly a cry of distress rends the air, so strong, so unnaturally loud and shrill, that only terrible anguish of soul could force out. The exertion has apparently exhausted their strength. Pale, and with tottering knees, there they stand. Johann, indeed, looks anxiously round for some sign of hope. Oh, if only their cries have reached the shore, a boat might be sent to seek and save them!

Nearer and nearer the waves approach. What is the matter with Heinrich? He looks fixedly upon the incoming flood, and yet he sees it not the noise of the waves is in his ears, and yet he heeds it not. What is he thinking about?

Those little white crests upon the waves are, in his sight, not foam but sparrows; those sounds in his ears not the noise of the waves, as they break near his feet, but, "Oh, fy, you little thief!-oh, fy, you little thief!" He stands no longer surrounded by water, but he is a little boy in his father's house; and in the next room he sees his dying sister, and he is eating the grapes intended for her refreshment. The sparrows have seen it; they are sitting at the window; they come now to him in his dying hour and cry, "Oh, fy, you thief!-oh, fy, you thief!"

Nearer and nearer the waters approach; they cover now the whole ground. With convulsive efforts Johann succeeds in dragging the unresisting Heinrich up on a little sand-bank, which still projects a little out of the surrounding waters. Heinrich remains lost in thought. He is in Mr. Winter's shop. He has stolen-deceived -and then denied his guilt. How often has his mother wept over him! What did he promise at his confirmation? Alas! he is upon "the broad way which leadeth to destruction!"

Higher and higher the waters rise! Heinrich is upon "the broad way," and these waves are carrying him to judgment; whilst the sparrows continually cry, "Oh, fy, you thief!-oh, fy, you thief!" Higher and higher the waters rise!

His whole life lies like a picture before his eyes; he sees every event distinctly, as if mirrored in the clear waters which play around his feet. He has been wicked from childhood up, and now comes his reward.

Johann is clinging closely to Heinrich, feeling his strength fast giving way, whilst the latter stands as motionless and apparently regardless of his frightful position as ever.

A large wave clashes over their knees. "We are lost!" the terrified Johann exclaims, in a voice of horror. "Yes, lost-eternally lost," is the echo from Heinrich's heart.

Higher and ever higher the waters rise !

Hark! another sound than the rushing of the waves, breaks upon the ear. Johann listens, oh, how anxiously. It is the stroke of an oar. With the strength given by despair, and the hope, however slight, of escaping an awful death, Johann shouts for help, whilst Heinrich still stands motionless and silent. Shout after shout rends the air in quick succession. The raging waters have reached their beating hearts; but Johann, nerved with fresh hope, now holds his companion with a firmer grasp, whilst, with his disengaged arm, uplifted above the waters, he waves and points to a little boat, which appears but as a black speck in the distance.

Higher and higher the waters rise!

The struggle soon must end-a few more dashing waves, and they will be beyond the help of man.

One more long, loud cry of despair reverberates through the stillness of the night.

"We come, we come!" Oh, joyful, welcome sounds! In a few minutes strong, powerful arms have lifted Johann and Heinrich into the boat, and they are saved.

Their brave deliverers cover them with their warm coats and make for the island.

These sailors had been on their way home, when they heard Johann's screams; and guided by his repeated cries for help, they have been able to rescue him and his companion from a watery grave.

"The floods have lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice; the floods lift up their waves. The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea."

CHAPTER IV.

Ir is Christmas-eve! An evening so full of joy and delight, when, in almost every family, happy children may be seen, rejoicing in the brilliantly lighted and gaily decorated Christmas-tree. It is Christmas-eve, and the bells ring out a merry peal.

The ground is thickly covered with snow; so pure, so white, one might lay the most delicate gift upon it. Before Mrs. Schröder's door may also be seen the pure, white covering. Has God provided a Christmas gift for the poor widow?

Let us step in. It is the same low-roofed, scantily furnished dwelling in which we found her after her husband's death. She has not yet laid aside her mourning dress; it is in keeping with all around her. Mrs. Schröder's fate is a hard one,—without husband, without child, she lives quite alone. Her hands are so much distorted by gout, that she can scarcely manage to keep her small house clean and prepare her simple meals.

She has never suffered from actual want, for good and kind neighbours have taken upon themselves to see her well provided for. But if they have been careful to keep hunger and cold far from her little dwelling, they have not been able to bring sunshine and joy into the widow's soul. Mrs. Schröder never murmurs nor complains, for

she is acquainted with and loves God's Word; but really joyful she will never feel, until she hears from the prodigal son. "He came to himself and said, I will arise and go to my father."

Christmas-eve reminds Mrs. Schröder of another sad event. This day sixteen years ago, her dear little daughter died. Oh, had God only spared her, the poor widow would not now be so sad and lonely; but no bitter element mixes with her thoughts about Minna. Her beloved child is in heaven; but where is Heinrich?

No Christmas-tree burns in Mrs. Schröder's little room. She has lighted no candle, but sits at the window, looking out upon the brilliantly lighted windows of the houses opposite, and the beautiful white snow-clad scene. Many pictures of bright and happy Christmas evenings spent with her husband and children around their Christmas-tree, rise up before her, as she sits reflecting upon the past. Gone, those days of pleasure and gladness! gone, alas! for ever.

Some one knocks at the door. Who can it be so late as this? "Come in." The tall figure of a man stands upon the threshold.

"Does Mrs. Schröder live here?" he asks in a deep voice. "I am she," she answers trembling; "but wait till I light the candle."

He remains standing at the door, whilst she looks for the matches. Now the light burns brightly; so, holding her hand before it, that the wind may not blow it out, she steps forward and looks at the stranger.

"Mother!"

"Heinrich!"

With the effort to stretch out her arms to embrace him, she staggers; Heinrich quickly raises her sinking form in his arms, and now there is complete silence in the room. Do God's bright angels pass through the room? The light was extinguished when it fell from the poor widow's hand; but the white snow sparkles in the moonlight, and a gift has been received in that still room such as God alone can bestow.

The son sits at his mother's feet, relating to her all the events of his checkered life, since he left her. How that day sixteen years ago, he had eaten the grapes which Adelheid had brought for Minna; how his sins had multiplied since then. How he had deceived Mr. Winter and his other masters, stealing their goods and money, without feeling any stings of conscience or

remorse.

Now he comes to that awful though blessed boat excursion. He tells her how all at once his conscience awoke, and his whole life, in all its wickedness, lay distinctly spread out before his eyes. How, in that frightful moment, the waves had appeared to him covered with sparrows; and how clearly the words which he had heard on that memorable Christmas-day then rung in his ears once more: 66 Oh, fie, you thief!-oh, fie, you thief!" Heinrich goes on to relate, that after having been so wonderfully rescued from a horrible death, and brought to the island, he had had a dangerous illness.

Two poor but truly kind-hearted, benevolent men had taken him home and nursed him. How, when he had recovered from the fever, and was once more in possession of his senses, he found his sins his greatest pain and heaviest burden.

In his distress he unburdened his mind to the old woman who had scarcely left his bedside during all the time of his feverish ravings, and had nursed him with a mother's tenderness. As she herself had been taught of God to prize his holy Word, she was able to point out to Heinrich the way to obtain forgiveness of his sins and true peace of mind,—namely, through Jesus Christ, who has said, "I am the way."

In drawing his story to a close, Heinrich adds in a most serious voice: "Mother, I have indeed been a wicked youth; but I am resolved that henceforth my life shall be very different. With God's help, I hope to continue to the close of my days walking on 'the narrow way which leadeth to everlasting life.' I have hitherto caused you great sorrow and anxiety, forgive me, dear mother, as God has forgiven me.

"I have not been able to bring you anything. Look here! That is all the money I have"-at the same time drawing a small purse out of his pocket-" and if my last master, to whom I related all my evil doings, had not been so generous and kind, I should not have had even this.

"But the money in the purse is not mine; it belongs to Mr. Winter. I have tried to recollect the different sums I took from him, and have reckoned them together. Alas! I can't tell exactly how much money I took; but about double the amount is here, I believe, and this evening I will go and give it to him. I cannot rest until I have seen him and restored his property to him.

"But, my dear mother, although I have no money to give you, I have brought you a pair of strong, healthy arms, which will work for you; and a loving heart, which will ever strive to make your declining years pleasant and happy."

Saying this, Heinrich stretches out his hand, and the joyful mother lays her trembling hand within his powerful grasp. And now she lifts up her heart in praise and thanksgiving to God for the restoration of her beloved son.

Do angels not look on with joy, as mother and son, united, sit there praising God?

The room is dark, but their hearts are lighted up with true happiness and bright hope for the future.

Heinrich at last gets up, saying, "I must now go to Mr. Winter's. I left him in a proud, defiant spirit, with a lie upon my tongue. I shall have no rest until I have confessed all to him, and begged his forgiveness."

Mrs. Schröder strikes a light to show her son out; then, after closing the door, she takes her Bible, turns to the fifteenth chapter of the Gospel according to St. Luke, and with a pen draws a line under the words, "For this my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.”

'Yes, that is a beautiful idea. The Psalmist had no doubt often seen what Dr. Thomson describes. I shall read to you what he (Dr. Thomson) says about this verse. "Follow me into the grove, and I will show you what may have suggested the comparison. Here, we have hit upon a beautiful illustration. This aged and decayed tree is surrounded, as you see, by several young and thriving shoots, which spring from the root of the venerable parent. They seem to uphold, protect, and embrace it. We may even fancy that they now bear that load of fruit which would otherwise be expected from the feeble parent. Thus do good and affectionate | children gather round the table of the righteous. Each contributes something to the common wealth and welfare of the whole-a beautiful sight, with which may God refresh the eyes of every friend of mine.""

'Mamma," said Bessie, "you have only one little olive-plant."

"Well," said her mother, kissing her, "the little plant must make haste and grow strong, and bear a great deal of good fruit. But," she continued more seriously, "it is wonderful, as we search into the Word of God, to find the variety of lessons and emblems which the Holy Spirit gives from one subject. I have been much impressed by this while thinking of our Bible botany. We shall find it with the olive, as well as the corn and the vines. Read this verse, which I do not think you have got in your list. Job has been speaking of sinful, worldly men: Let not him that is deceived trust in vanity; for vanity shall be his recompense...... He shall cast off his flower as the olive"" (Job xv. 31, 33). "What kind of flower is it?" asked Bessie; "and why are they cast away?”

"In its native country no tree has such quantities of flowers, we are told, as the olive; but then not one in a hundred comes to any good; the white blossoms are just blown or 'cast' off by millions, like so many flakes of snow. And thus they are remarkable emblems of the vain hopes and plans of those who live only for the vanities of this world. It reminds me of the striking contrast in Ps. i., where it is said of the godly man that whatsoever he doeth shall prosper;' while the ungodly are not so, but are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.'"

"Here is something," said Bessie, "which I do not understand." She read in Rom. xi. 17-24.

Mrs. Douglas explained that the apostle is here speaking of the Gentiles, who in the Christian Church were admitted to share all those privileges of the "children of God" which in Old Testament times were peculiar to the Jewish nation. And she showed how the process of grafting a wild olive on a good tree was "contrary to nature,” and in a literal sense would only spoil the good olive-tree. But in a spiritual sense the emblem is fulfilled in every case of conversion. "We come to Jesus, my dear child, useless and barren in ourselves, and he receives us, and makes us fruitful branches in the 'good olive-tree' of his Church on earth. But, as we saw when speaking of the parable of the True Vine, all our life and fruitfulness depends on our being joined to Christ as the root. Without him we can do nothing; we may learn this great truth from the olive in a parable, as we did before from the vine. The wild olive bears few berries, and these have little oil in them; the good olive, as we found last Sabbath, is one of the most valuable trees in the world, so that it is one of God's judgments threatened in Scripture, to send a blight or barrenness on the olive-yards.”

"Mamma, is not there something about the wild olive in that hymn by Bishop Heber on Jerusalem, which you sometimes sing?"

66 Yes; and this remarkable verse in Romans is alluded to. Here, read the verses."

"And who art thou that mournest me?' replied the ruin gray; 'And fear'st not rather that thyself shouldst prove a castaway? I am a dried and abject branch, my place is given to theeBut woe to every barren graft of thy wild olive-tree !'"

"Let us pray more often for the conversion of the Jews," said Mrs. Douglas; "and let us remember what the Lord has said, in regard to ourselves, that from those to whom much is given, much shall be required.”

Then she read two remarkable passages-Zech. liv. 1, 2, 11-14; and Rev. xi. 3, 4—and explained how, in these visions, the olive-trees represent eminent servants of the Lord, "witnesses" for him, constantly supplied with the oil of grace from himself.

"I found these verses," said Bessie, "but I did not understand them."