"No!" I replied, but quailed beneath her eye.

"Then follow me," said she, as she grasped my arm firmly. I raised my foot-oh, my son, hear me !-I raised my foot and kicked her-my sainted mother! How my head reels as the torment of memory rushes over me! I kicked my mother-a feeble woman-my mother! She staggered back a few steps and leaned against the wall. She did not look at me. I saw her heart beat against her breast.

"Oh! Heavenly Father," she cried, "forgive him-he knows not what he does!"

The gardener just then passed the door, and seeing my mother pale and almost unable to support herself, he stopped; she beckoned him in.

"Take this boy up stairs and lock him in his room," said she, and turned from me.

Looking back as she was entering her room, she gave me such a look of agony, mingled with the most intense love— it was the last unutterable pang from a heart that was broken.

In a moment I found myself a prisoner in my own room. I thought, for a moment, I would fling myself from the open window and dash my brains out, but I felt afraid to do it. I was not penitent. At times my heart was subdued, but my stubborn pride rose in an instant, and bade me not yield. The pale face of my mother haunted me. I flung myself on the bed and fell asleep. Just at twilight I heard a footstep approach the door. It was my sister.

What may I tell my mother from you?" she asked. "Nothing," I replied.

"Oh, Alfred! for my sake, for all our sakes, say that you are sorry. Let me tell mother that you are sorry! She longs to forgive you."

I would not answer. I heard her footsteps slowly retreating, and again I threw myself on the bed, to pass another wretched and fearful night.

Another footstep, slower and feebler than my sister's disturbed me. A voice called me by name. It was my mother's. "Alfred, my son, shall I come? Are you sorry for what you have done?" she asked.

I cannot tell what influence, operating at that moment, made me speak adverse to my feelings. The gentle voice of my mother that thrilled through me, melted the ice from my obdurate heart, and I longed to throw myself on her

neck, but I did not. But my words gave the lie to my heart, when I said I was not sorry. I heard her withdraw. I heard her groan. I longed to call her back, but I did not.

I was awakened from my uneasy slumber by hearing my name called loudly, and my sister stood at my bedside. "Get up, Alfred. Oh, don't wait a minute! Get up and come with me. Mother is dying!"

I thought I was yet dreaming, but I got up mechanically and followed my sister. On the bed, pale and cold as marble, lay my mother. She had not undressed. She had thrown herself on the bed to rest; arising to go again to me, she was seized with a palpitation of the heart, and borne senseless to her room.

I cannot tell you my agony as I looked upon her-my remorse was tenfold more bitter from the thought that she would never know it. I believed myself to be her murderer. I fell on the bed beside her. I could not weep. My heart burned in my bosom; my brain was all on fire. My sister threw her arms around me, and wept in silence. Suddenly we saw a slight motion of mother's hand-her eyes unclosed. She had recovered consciousness, but not speech. She looked at me and moved her lips. I could not understand her words. "Mother, mother," I shrieked, "say only that you forgive me." She could not say it with her lips, but her hand pressed mine. She smiled upon me, and lifting her thin, white hands, she clasped my own within them, and cast her eyes upward. She moved her lips in prayer, and thus she died. I remained still kneeling beside that dear form, till my gentle sister removed me. The joy of youth had left me forever.

Boys who spurn a mother's control, who are ashamed to own that you are wrong, who think it manly to resist her authority, or to spurn her influence, beware! Lay not up for yourselves bitter memories for your future years.

TROUBLE IN THE CHOIR.-A. T. WORden.

There was something so unusual in the singing of the choir That the elder looked up mildly from the tenth of Jeremiah, And with readjusted eyeglass looked along the foremost row, While hundred necks were twisted in a stare from all below.

As before the rolling thunder comes a distant, wailing moan, There was presage of disturbance in the very organ's tone. Just the popping of the pickets, ere the battle's awful din, Or the tuning of the fiddles ere the orchestra begin.

An unprejudiced observer might have seen with half an eye There was waiting an explosion that would blow them all sky-high;

Or spontaneous combustion, to accept a modern name,
That was waiting just a motion to burst forth into flame.

The soprano sat in grandeur, with her book before her face,
With her back-comb turned in anger on the alto and the bass;
While the tenor stood beside her with an elevated nose,
And the organist pawed madly at the pedals with her toes.
How could any one but angels sing when they were feel-
ing so?

Though the hymn was "Song of Gladness," they would make it "Sounds of Woe."

When we sing about devotion, some devotion we must feel, Or our plaintive tones of worship will partake somewhat of squeal.

But the alto sung her solo, and then left it to the bass, Who was gnawing at his moustache, and was looking for the place;

While the organist, in anger, sung the leading part alone, And the tenor tried to follow, but it ended in a groan.

As the horror-stricken people heard the discord rising higher, It was patent to the simplest there was trouble in the choir, And the organist, in fury, closed the organ with a crash, And the alto sobbed in anguish, and the choir had gone to smash.

When the elder went among them, with a view to reconcile, The soprano told her story with a sanguinary smile;

It appeared the wretched chorister had introduced a girl With a brand-new style of singing, and a most distracting curl.

But, to cap the bitter climax, this usurper wore a hat,

Just a duck, a gem, a beauty, and it made the rest look flat; And the straw that broke the camel's back and made the

wreck complete

She came early Sunday morning, and usurped the leading

seat.

When the elder asked the tenor why he left, he said, "Be

cause

The soprano said his chest-tones sounded just like filing saws;

And he overheard the alto, one night, whisper to the bass,, That a man with such a moustache was a palpable disgrace."

And the bass informed the elder that he sacrificed his views When he came and joined the elder's choir, to help fill up his pews;

He was an Episcopalian, and if the people thought he'd take Any nonsense from a Baptist, they had made a great mistake.

Then the organist and alto both put on an injured look,
Saying something in an undertone about a change of book;
And the elder overheard them as he gently closed the door,
Use the words, “A poor old fogy," and "A sentimental bore."
And he scratched his poor old noddle, as he ambled down
the street,

With his spectacles on forehead and his slippers on his feet;
And I really think the elder has a hope of pouring oil
On the troubled sea of music, to allay the sad turmoil.

In the meantime service opens with old "China" or "Bethune," And the deacon with his tune-fork gives the people all the tune;

And the organ gathers cobwebs, and the people gather grace, While they roar out "Coronation" to the deacon's hoarsest bass.

THE MAIDEN MARTYR.

The following touching incident characterizes an important era in the history of the Scotch Covenanters:

A troop of soldiers waited at the door,
A crowd of people gathered in the street,
Aloof a little from them bared sabres gleamed
And flashed into their faces. Then the door
Was opened, and two women meekly stepped
Into the sunshine of the sweet May-noon,
Out of the prison. One was weak and old,
A woman full of tears and full of woes;
The other was a maiden in her morn,
And they were one in name, and one in faith,
Mother and daughter in the bond of Christ,
That bound them closer than the ties of blood.

The troop moved on; and down the sunny street
The people followed, ever falling back

As in their faces flashed the naked blades.
But in the midst the women simply went
As if they two were walking, side by side,
Up to God's house on some still Sabbath morn,

Only they were not clad for Sabbath day,
But as they went about their daily tasks:
They went to prison and they went to death,
Upon their Master's service.

On the shore
The troopers halted; all the shining sands
Lay bare and glistering; for the tide had
Drawn back to its farthest margin's weedy mark,
And each succeeding wave, with flash and curve,
That seemed to mock the sabres on the shore,
Drew nearer by a hand-breadth. "It will be

A long day's work," murmured those murderous men
As they slacked rein. The leader of the troops
Dismounted, and the people passing near

Then heard the pardon proffered, with the oath
Renouncing and abjuring part with all

The persecuted, covenanted folk.

But both refused the oath: "Because," they said, "Unless with Christ's dear servants we have part, We have no part with Him."

On this they took
The elder Margaret, and led her out

Over the sliding sands, the weedy sludge,
The pebbly shoals, far out, and fastened her
Unto the farthest stake, already reached
By every rising wave, and left her there:

And as the waves crept about her feet, she prayed "That He would firm uphold her in their midst, Who holds them in the hollow of His hand."

The tide flowed in. And up and down the shore
There paced the Provost and the Laird of Lag--
Grim Grierson--with Windram and with Graham;
And the rude soldiers, jesting with coarse oaths,
As in the midst the maiden meekly stood,
Waiting her doom delayed, said "she would
Turn before the tide-seek refuge in their arms
From the chill waves." But ever to her lips
There came the wondrous words of life and peace:
"If God be for us, who can be against?"

"Who shall divide us from the love of Christ ?"
"Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature."

From the crowd

A woman's voice cried a very bitter cry-
"O Margaret! My bonnie, bonnie Margaret!
Gie in, gie in, my bairnie, dinna ye drown,
Gie in, and tak' the oath."

The tide flowed in;
And so wore on the sunny afternoon;