"Here in this shed, sir. There is a bit of hay and some beans, with which he can amuse himself while we are gone."

The path was not steep, for it was cut in a zig-zag form, sometimes leading over pastures, and sometimes through woods so thick that the moonlight could not penetrate them; but the guide was provided with a torch of pine, to prevent the danger of a false step. For the first part of the journey they travelled on in silence, the guide amusing himself with forming conjectures as to the object of Alfred's visit to the charcoal burner after night had set in. "Can it be," he said to himself, "a relation from the Indies, or from Algeria? I never heard that Gervais had any relations in those parts. Or a creditor? No, that cannot be, for my honest friend, I am sure, does not owe any one a single penny. Or has he gained a prize in the lottery? He would consider it a sin to risk the smallest fraction upon such a hazard. Ah! perhaps some one has left him a legacy. So much the better, if it is so. I shall be well paid for the trouble I have had. He is too good a fellow not to reward me to the utmost of his power."

Thus it was that the guide employed himself in vain conjectures. When the uncertain light by which they travelled, whether of the moon or of the torch, fell sufficiently clear upon Alfred's features, he examined them attentively, as if he could have read his secret in them. His curiosity made him not less impatient to reach the charcoal furnace than the young man himself. At length, by a sudden turn of the path, it appeared at once before them. The wood, heaped in the form of a cone, and covered with a thick coating of earth, was burning slowly, openings being made at different heights on the mound, to give a pa.s.sage to the flames, and to afford a proper proportion of atmospheric air, to keep them alive.

Alfred, though born in the neighbourhood, had never before visited a charcoal furnace; but, new as the sight was to him, he did not pause long to observe it. His attention was arrested by the hut which stood near, built something in the form of a tent, and composed of planks leaning on both sides against a cross-beam, which rested on two others placed one at each end of the building. This kind of hut is common to most of the charcoal burners of these mountains, where they make their dwelling during the whole of the summer months, having no other bed than dried leaves--no other apparent occupation than cutting and piling up the wood, and watching their fires. One moment only Alfred stopped to gaze upon this humble dwelling, compared with which the chalets of the cowherds were almost splendid mansions; the next instant, his attention was arrested by something far more interesting. A chorus of youthful voices burst upon his ears, accompanied by one deep, clear ba.s.s, which was powerful enough to support and regulate the trebles. They were singing the following hymn, to a beautiful Swiss air, well known to Alfred as one used in the churches of that Protestant canton--

"Look to Jesus, weary wanderer, Sinful, wretched as thou art; He is precious; thou shalt know it; Only trust His loving heart.

"Trust it wholly; it was broken That thine own might be at peace; Every sin its streams atone for; He can bid all anguish cease.

"Now He reigns above the heavens, And shall reign for evermore; But His mighty arm is guarding Those for whom He died before.

"He shall come again in glory; All creation shall bow down; Those who seek not His salvation Must endure His awful frown.

"Wait upon Him, then, His people; Let Him be your constant strength; Lean upon Him daily, hourly; Ye shall reign with Him at length.

"May the Spirit of adoption, Which our Heavenly Father gives, Help us all and each to please Him More each moment of our lives."

(_To be continued_.)

ENVY shoots at others and wounds itself.

WE should often have reason to be ashamed of our most brilliant actions, if the world could see the motives from which they spring.

SCRIPTURE ENIGMA.

A PARABLE FROM A FARMER'S SON TO ALL GLEANERS.

I was born in a house where there were many fields attached--in fact, it was called a farm-house, so, from a boy, I well knew what a "gleaner"

meant. I have seen all sizes in a field, picking up corn. But gleaning is not so general as it used to be. One reason is, many farmers are too covetous to leave much in their fields for gleaners. Another is, many persons are too proud to be gleaners. But still there are many who are ent.i.tled to the character of "gleaner."

Now, gleaners, let us come a little closer. First, there must be the person known as the farmer; secondly, there must be the fields. These fields must be sown with corn. It must ripen, be cut and carried. Then is the time for the gleaner to take his or her part. The gleaners must have a will, and patience to wait. They need eyes, hands, and feet.

At the time the farmer's son is writing this, gleaning is over. It is winter. But he can tell gleaners of a farm containing sixty-six fields, some much larger than others, but all the fields grow the best corn that can be found at any market in the world. There is not one whole gra.s.s field found on the farm. There are a number of young and old people live near this farm, but they do not want to be gleaners. They look over the gates sometimes, but, having eyes so much like the mole, they either do not take that to be corn which is really so, or else they pursue other things they feel are so much better than gleaning in any of these fields; and not being very poor, but having enough gold to buy a few oxen, they tell some of the farmer's workmen they prefer _buying_ or _taking_ to gleaning, so they wish them "good morning"; but they are very polite to the men they join in conversation with. Then there are other people near these fields who say they hate the great farmer. In fact, they are so evil-disposed that they talk freely of hating the fields and the corn too; and there is not one workman on the estate they will give a good word to. This the farmer's son can vouch for truth; and he has a good many brothers belonging to his family, who could be called as witnesses if there was any need.

But we must not overlook others who live near the farm. Most of them dwell in a very low-built house; there is no upstairs. They live on the ground floor, and not far from the spot where they dwell, some of the labourers on the farm live, and they join in conversation occasionally.

But these poor people who dwell in the low-built cottages are shy, and think they take a liberty even in saying a few words to these labourers; and as for talking freely to the great farmer, they dare not. If he pa.s.ses, they only bow before him and look on the ground. You would almost wonder how they are kept alive. They are nearly always hungry, but, now and then, they get just enough to keep them alive.

When the "season" comes round, those that observe may soon find these are the old-fashioned gleaners. They possess willing legs, eyes, and hands. They use their legs by starting from their poor home; and, after walking some distance, the road brings them to this farm of sixty-six fields. These fields are all numbered. Some look at one field, and some at another, but the hedges are all good. No one can get through them, and a high gate is at each entrance. One of the gleaners looked with a very wishful eye over the gate of the eighth field, and she desired to be among the gleaners, but there was a notice that "trespa.s.sers will be prosecuted." How earnestly the gleaner uses his eyes, and looks through the bars of the gate; but there are no ears of corn to be seen at present by him, so he cannot use his hands, though they are both ready to pick up; and the thought comes, "No doubt there will soon be plenty of corn seen, and, if I might, would I not pick up? I feel I would glean beside any gleaner. If he could pick faster than I, he would have to be very nimble. I do not know that the great landowner and farmer would allow me to go into his field. But, though my hands now hang down, and I cannot use them, I will go home and wait, and come again. If I cannot get admission to one field, I may to another. I should be happy if I could glean in the smallest field on the farm. Perhaps, when I come again, that notice-board may be taken down. If so, I think I shall venture into No. 8 or 17; but should I not have nerve enough, I shall humbly ask one of the labourers, and if he says he does not know, I will, if an opportunity occurs, bow myself to the earth and ask the great owner. I have been told by some that he often appears as if he could not condescend to speak to those that live in such a low house, yet, if you press your suit, he will speak in the kindest manner, and ask what you really want."

The farmer's son noticed, as this gleaner returned to his humble home, one of the labourers greeted him with a "Good evening," and asked him why he looked so sad? He replied, "I have been a long journey to glean on the farm owned by your master, and I looked at the eighth field, but could not see that there were any ears of corn for me to pick up; and besides, I noticed a board, that 'trespa.s.sers will be prosecuted,' and thoughts would keep coming in my mind as I returned, that possibly I should never be admitted into any of the fields as a gleaner." The labourer said, "You must not faint, but, as soon as the sun rises in the morning, try and find the forty-second field, and most probably you will find the gate open. If, as you enter, the first part of the field looks bare, walk to almost the middle, and I think you will find some gleanings to pick up." He returned thanks, bowed, and they parted.

The next morning, as soon as the sun was up, he arose and did as he was bid. After reaching the field, he found the part where the ears of corn lay, and he picked up as many as he needed. On his return, he met several other gleaners who were seeking a field to glean in. He bade them go to the same one where he had picked up an armful, and there they would find the result of perseverance.

The parable is closed for this time. Will any reader, under twelve years of age, expound it? Who are the farmer and the son? Who are the labourers and gleaners? What are the sixty-six fields? And what are the names of those specially referred to? Search from Genesis to Revelation.

Your true friend, THE FARMER'S SON (_Over fifteen years old_).

[A volume, "The Loss of All Things for Christ," will be given for the best answer. The writer must be under twelve.]

BIBLE SUBJECTS FOR EACH SUNDAY IN JANUARY.

Jan. 1. Commit to memory 1 Chrn. v. 10.

Jan. 8. Commit to memory Psa. cxi. 10.

Jan. 15. Commit to memory Prov. viii. 10.

Jan. 22. Commit to memory Prov. viii. 32.

Jan. 29. Commit to memory John iv. 10.

WHAT the world calls virtue is a name and a dream without Christ. The foundation of all human excellence must be laid deep in the blood of the Redeemer's cross and in the power of His resurrection.--_Robertson._

AN OLD QUILT AND ITS STORY.

Among all the beautiful needlework exhibited in the "Woman's Industry Department" of the recent Edinburgh Exhibition, many must have observed a bed-quilt worked in a quaint conventional pattern, on a white linen ground, which bore a label to the effect that it was "designed and commenced by a Countess of Aberdeen towards the middle of the last century, and recently completed by a crofter woman in Aberdeenshire."

Could the quilt tell its own tale, its history, no doubt, would be most pathetic and interesting; but we will try, with the knowledge we have, to lightly sketch that history.

The Countess who commenced it was Anne, daughter of Alexander, second Duke of Gordon. The third wife of William, Earl of Aberdeen, she was still a young woman when, by his death in 1745, she was left a widow.

Quitting Haddo, the home of her married life, she went with her young family to reside in the fine old historic castle of Fyvie, a few miles distant, which, with her dower, had been bought by the Earl as her jointure house. The Countess seems to have been gifted with artistic tastes, as she left in Haddo many evidences of her skill and industry--several sets of beautifully-worked curtains, with long-forgotten curious st.i.tches, producing varied and admirable effects.

But the bright, pretty industry of the Countess was checked. Sickness, to be followed by death, entered her home.

We may fancy that by her husband's sick-bed the first beginning of this quilt was made--how, in the intervals of watching the invalid, a few sprays and scrolls were delicately traced. But the summons had gone forth, and, as death approached, the work, which had been in part the occupation of happier days, and a resource in affliction, was thrown aside.

When the widowed Countess had settled in a new home, and again faced the ordinary duties of life, we need not wonder that she thought no more of the discarded work left at Haddo House, but set herself to design afresh and embroider the curtains which have ever since (until recently) adorned a bed-room in Fyvie Castle.

Into these no doubt was woven many a thought for the Jacobite cause, and many an anxiety for dear ones, as her own family, the ducal house of Gordon, had been keen supporters of the Stuarts, and it is said that the Countess came out on the road-side, near Fyvie Castle, with her children, to see the Duke of c.u.mberland's troops pa.s.s on their way to Culloden to put down the Scotch rebellion, and boldly avowed to him her sympathy with his foe.

But what of the work the Countess left at Haddo House? As to it, our history is silent for more than a hundred years. It has lain folded by the fingers of the busy worker that have long been still. Sorrow and joy have come by turns to the house--birth and death. Children have prattled, and statesmen have discussed the affairs of nations. Those who have made history have come and gone; philanthropy and romance have alike been woven into the family story; but the piece of discarded broderie has been unheeded.

At length the present Countess of Aberdeen, whose name will ever be a.s.sociated with earnest desire and effort for the good of others, and whose taste and love of the beautiful led to her interest in such work, unfolding the long-forgotten quilt, conceived the idea of having it completed, if possible. To whom, however, could the beautiful work be entrusted to be finished, by deft fingers and graceful appreciation?

[Ill.u.s.tration: INTERIOR OF A CROFTER'S COTTAGE.]

We now turn to another scene. About five-and-twenty years ago, on the top of a bare hill in Fyvie, Aberdeenshire, stood a cottage, tenanted by a crofter named Sandieson, with his wife and family. Though at a comparatively high elevation, the land around was all cultivated, but, arid and stony as the soil was, it seemed as if cultivation were one long struggle against Nature, rather than aided by it. Life was hard; still, contentment sweetened the peasant's lot, and they got on pretty well till sickness during three successive winters told hardly on his means. Father, mother, and children all worked; still the wolf was at the door. Bed clothing was scant, and money to buy still scantier. A mother's love and care quickened thought.