his word never again to acknowledge the profligate as his son.

So when Campbell Logan pressed him so hard, so cruelly" hard, as he said, do you wonder that Mr. Ackman's spirit was at length roused, that hasty words escaped his lips, and that, in short, the two friends parted in anger?

Mr. Ackman was again alone. But all his complacent feelings had vanished, for a sudden revulsion had taken place in his mind, which still heaved with conflicting emotions. He was "like the troubled sea, casting up mire and dirt;" and in the multitude of his thoughts within him, God's comforts did not delight his soul. Is this to be wondered at?

Mr. Ackman was like many others. He had a strong hereditary regard for religion; and, not to judge uncharitably, religion probably had a hold upon his heart; butyes, let the truth be spoken-the cares of the world and the deceitfulness of riches had choked the word, and made it unfruitful. Perhaps he needed to be shown this his danger; and God, we know, has his own methods of dealing with his erring children. His ways are not our ways, nor his thoughts our thoughts: but his ways and thoughts are infinitely wise and good; not so ours.

When the storm in his soul had a little subsided, Mr. Ackman went over in his mind all that had passed. He had quarrelled with his earliest friend; and until this evening they had never disagreed angrily. Mr. Ackman tried to persuade himself that he was in the right, that Campbell had been intrusive, impertinent, prying, interfering; but he could not comfortably lay hold of this conviction. There was something else which had fastened on his mind, and he could not shake it off. What was it

Campbell Logan had said about throwing away a hope of eternal life? What did Campbell Logan mean by applying to him the words of Christ and of Christ's apostles? Mr. Ackman recoiled from this application; but was it true that, by his unforgiving temper, he was proving that God's love did not dwell in him?

Mr. Ackman did not want to hurry home now. He must think, and think alone. He drew himself up to his desk, placed his elbows upon it, buried his face in his hands, and thought.

Memory, retrospection, carried his mind back through a long series of years to the time of his childhood when, with Campbell Logan, he had wandered through the glens and copses, and by the burnsides of their native land; to the straits of poverty they had experienced; to the eventful journey southward, when, in their youth, they had determined to seek their fortune together in rich and busy London. He thought of his own parents, and his sorrowful yet hopeful parting with them, of their occasional subsequent meetings, and of their joy and gratitude when God's good providence placed it in his power to sweeten and soften their declining years. These parents were gone now; and the remembrance gave him pain: tears came to his eyes. There was another retrospection: he remembered how that once, in his early years, he had been grievously tempted, had almost turned aside into fearful sin, his steps had almost gone, his feet had well nigh slipped; but he had been delivered from the snare of the fowler. Mr. Ackman turned pale and shivered at the recollection, as he asked himself by whose mercy he had been saved from destruction.

He thought again of a little child whom he had dandled on his knee; and-no, no-the thought was too painful. But painful thoughts would crowd into his mind. God, in mercy, was making his heart soft; and he knew how to do it.

On leaving his old friend's counting-house, Mr. Campbell Logan walked mournfully and slowly towards one of the bridges. It was, as we have said, an inclement evening; so that there were not many loiterers to be seen. There was one, however. Sheltered as much as might be from the cutting wind was a solitary man, wrapped in a cloak, whose sole occupation at that time seemed to consist in looking over the parapet of the bridge upon the reflected lights from the gloomy waters beneath. An hour had passed away, and he had scarcely moved from this position; and more than one sharp glance had been cast upon him by a policeman as he paced backwards and forwards on his uncomfortable beat. But as there was nothing in the pallid countenance of this watcher, as seen by the nearest gas-lamp, to confirm the policeman's first and worst suspicions, or to warrant his interference, he passed on silently.

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Presently a hand was laid on the watcher's arm, and a kindly tone spoke to his ear: "We will walk on, Arthur." It is as I feared, then ?" said the young man thus addressed. His voice was tremulous. "It is as I feared, and I have no father."

"Look upward, Arthur," softly whispered his friend and comforter: When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.'

There was no need to say more; they walked on silently, arm in arm.

The old year had not yet passed away; there remained yet four hours to run their course; and Campbell Logan was by his own fire-side. Ordinarily it was a solitary fireside; for its master was a solitary man. Now, however, he was not alone. Arthur Ackman was his companion, and together they were mournfully, yet not hopelessly, planning for the future. Now that this last attempt at reconciliation had failed, and that London had become too sorrowful a place to dwell in, with parents, sisters, brothers so near and yet so terribly far off, what remained better than that Arthur should accept the situation offered him abroad through the kindness and influence of his benefactor? Here, in England, a dark shade rested upon his character; there, in that distant land

They were speaking of this, and words of kind and Christian encouragement were bidding the poor outcast take courage, and to keep near to Him who has said, "I will never leave thee nor forsake thee;" when the sound of wheels without suddenly ceasing at the gate of Mr. Logan's house attracted their attention. Then a ring at the gate bell; then, when the door was opened by the master of the house himself

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Campbell, I grieved you, I insulted you just now. God forgive me! I am a sinful man; but my God has shown me my pride and naughtiness of heart. I am here to ask you to forgive me, and to tell me where I may find my son, my poor boy, my dear son Arthur."

It need not be told how that old year ended, nor how the new year began. Nor need we trace the history thus hastily sketched any further than to say that when that new year became the old one, and another new year was looming on the morrow, Mr. Ackman had more abundant

reason to exclaim, humbly and gratefully, and in a better sense than the words were used a year before, “A capital year this has been.”

THE DREAM.

AN eminent florist remarks that "Ireland is pre-eminently a land of ferns. Its romantic scenery owes much of its bewitching beauty to the manner in which waterfalls, caverns, cliffs and wood-sides are adorned by the species found in such places." Everywhere it circles our green island like a chaplet. As the poet says

In the bawn of the chief, by the anchorite's cell,
On the hill-top or greenwood, by streamlet or well,
With a spell on each leaf which no mortal can learn,
Oh! there never was plant like the Irish hill fern.

A letter from a scientific friend requested me to send him a specimen of a fern peculiar to Ireland which was to be found in my neighbourhood. Having noticed that a variety of ferns grew near an old churchyard about a mile distant, I directed my steps thither. It was a lonely spot; and on the brink of a small stream which wound its way beside the crowded graves, its banks fringed with weeds, I soon found the desired plant. Having secured a specimen, I sat down to rest under the shade of a large horse-chestnut tree. Its branches, bending towards the ground, concealed me from view; but through a small opening in their luxuriant foliage I soon perceived two men seated on one of those grassy hillocks within which "the rude forefathers of the hamlet slept." Their eyes were fixed upon a tombstone a few paces from them. It was quite new, and must have been very lately placed there.

"Well, Jack," said one of the men, 66 we have done our mother's bidding; and came over the wide sea to do it."

"True enough for you, William," the other replied; "and now that is done I'm going to tell you what is on my mind about it, that it was a foolish thing we did, spending time and money without good coming of it to any one."

"Oh! Jack, Jack," exclaimed the first speaker, "how can you say that when our mother came, almost from the dead, to bid us do it? Didn't I dream twice in America that she desired us to come home and put a tombstone over her, in this very spot? You did not much give into it till you had the same dream yourself, and then you agreed to come."

"When

"Ah! how could I help having it?" said Jack. you were talking of it day and night, sure I couldn't but dream it too; and I gave into it that I might be on the sure side, William, for I would not for the whole world neglect anything that mother really wished."

for us.

"Right, John, right," cried his brother. "A better mother never lived; and we may say she gave up her life Didn't she nurse us day and night when we were in the fever, till she was so weak that when she took it herself she couldn't get through it? Ochone! that was the sorrowful hour to us.'

"So she did, William; and I would not grudge to do twice as much as we have done if I thought it really was her bidding. But what good can it be to either her soul or body to have that stone standing there any more than in its own quarry? And if it is no good, why should a message be sent to us to put it there ?"

"But our dream was a message, John."

"How do you know?" was John's answer.

"The priest told me so, and that if we went by it, it would help to get mother's soul out of purgatory."

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"And how did he know ?" inquired the persevering Jack. Oh, brother! it makes the blood at my heart run cold to hear you."

William, I told you I would not grudge any cost to do our dear mother's real wishes, though she is dead and gone; and I would not be backward to do God's bidding either but I should know that it really was so.'

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John," responded the other, with great solemnity, "the priest knows what God would have us do, and he tells us. "William, the priest tells us queer things sometimes, and things that I don't think the great God that made heaven and earth ever could have desired him."

Before William had time to express his horror and indignation at this bold speech, I rose and went towards them. Having apologised for inadvertently overhearing their conversation, I added, that I had been greatly pleased with the instance they had given of love and gratitude to a departed parent. "Still I am quite of your opinion, my friend," I said, looking at John, "that there was nothing supernatural about the dream. Your obeying its directions on the chance of their being real, I can hardly wonder at; it is so pleasant to prove our love by fulfilling the wishes of those who are its object."