danger, and did we realize, in any measure, their liability to be cast into the burning lake, we should arouse from our slumbers, and hail the recurrence of these seasons, where united supplication is blended with maternal solicitude, with deep and solemn interest; for if any cry would touch the heart of the compassionate Savior, it would be the fervent pleadings of a group of mothers, importuning in behalf of those precious immortals, who are embraced in the bond of the covenant, and who so excited his love and compassion, that, when on earth, he encircled them in his arms, and blessed them.

And here it becomes us to pause, and consider our distinguished mercies, for I doubt whether any association can record such signal blessings. Not a funeral knell has summoned us to mingle our sympathies with a bereaved mother, or to drop the tear of sorrow over a group of orphans; not a parental tie has been broken, not a link in this chain of interest severed; we are all this day among the living, to praise and adore the hand that has so mercifully sustained us in being, and spread around our pathway such a profusion of blessings; while the voice of providence has spoken with startling solemnity, both to mothers and children, "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might;""for in such an hour as ye think not, the Son of man cometh."

And we would not forget the displays of God's goodness, in bringing some, as we humbly hope and trust, out of nature's darkness into his marvellous light. Twelve of our number have been enrolled among the followers of the Lamb, and we trust their names are recorded in the book of life. Surely it becomes us to call upon our souls, and all that is within us, to bless his holy name. And ought not our hearts to be filled with lively gratitude, that this door is open for our mutual co-operation and encouragement, and through this door of communication we hear monthly reiterated, "Come thou, with all thy house, into the ark." And while we, as a band of Christian mothers, avail ourselves of the rich privilege, may we come burdened with a sense of our accountability, and weighed down with the import ance of our precious trust, feeling that what we do for these undying souls must be done quickly. We enter upon the duties

!

and engagements of another year, not knowing what a day may bring forth; nor would we withdraw the veil that hides futurity from our view, but we would feel that it becomes us to place ourselves in a waiting posture, having our lamps trimmed and burning, and laboring for souls, as those who expect very soon to give an account, strengthened and encouraged by the precious assurance, that in due season we shall reap, if we faint not. E. M. ROBERTS, Sec'y.

THE RICH MAN'S CHARITIES.

'Many a house is full, where the mind is unfurnished and the heart is empty; and no hovel of mere penury ought ever to be so sad as that house."-DEWEY.

Ir was near ten o'clock when Henry Aikin, in pursuance of his benevolent designs for Paulina, rung at Morris Finley's door, and told the servant, in reply to his saying Mr. Finley was dressing for a party, that he had pressing business, and must speak with him. The servant left Aikin in the entry, and, entering the drawing-room, pushed the door to after him, but not so close as to prevent Aikin hearing the following dialogue:

"There's somebody, ma'am, in the entry, wants to speak with Mr. Finley."

"Why did you not tell him he was not at home?"
"Because he is, ma'am."

"Pshaw, Tom, you know he is going out immediately, and it's all the same thing. Do you know who it is?"

"No, ma'am."

"Is it a gentleman ?"

"He speaks like one, ma'am."

"You certainly know, Tom-is he a gentleman, or only a

man ?"

"He is dressed like a man, ma'am."

"Tom, you must get over tormenting me this way; I've told you a hundred times the distinction."

Tom smiled. He evidently had in his mind something like the old distinction of the poet, though he could not, or dared not, express it—

"Worth makes the man-the want of it, the fellow."

"Well, well," added Mrs. Finley, "show him in, and tell Mr. Finley."

Aikin entered with that air of blended modesty and independence that characterized him; certainly with no look of inferiority, for he felt none; and, as Mrs. Finley's eye fell on his fine countenance, hers relaxed, and she was in the dilemma, for a moment, of not knowing whether to class him with the somebo dys or nobodys; but her glance descended to the plain and coarse garments of our friend in time to change a half-made courtesy to a salutation befitting an inferior. "Sit down," she said, wa

ving her hand to the nearest chair.

Aikin took the offered seat, and awaited, with what patience he could, the forthcoming of the master of the splendid mansion, observing what was before him with a feeling, not of envy or covetousness, but with deep joy and thankfulness for the virtue and true happiness of his humble home. Miss Sabina Jane Finley, now a young lady of twelve years, after surveying Aikin from top to toe, said to her mother, in a suppressed but audible voice, "Gentleman!"

Mrs. Finley seemed to have what she, no doubt, thought a truly genteel unconsciousness of "the man's" presence. She was very richly dressed for a ball; but, as is a common case with poor human nature, she was transferring the fault of her faded and time-stricken face to her milliner. "I declare, Sabina Jane," she said, surveying herself in the mirror, "I never will get another cap of Thompson-these flowers are as blue as the heavens."

"You selected them yourself, mamma."

"To be sure I did; but how could I tell how they would look in the evening?"

"Why don't you wear your new French cap, mamma ?" "Don't be a fool, child-have not I worn that twice already? Pull down that blonde over my shoulder-how it hoops! This is the second time Smetz has served me this way. This gown sets like fury. I never go out but I have some trial that spoils all my pleasure. Don't let me see you prink so, miss," turning to her daughter, and pulling from her head a dress cap, that she was trying on and arranging with all the airs and graces of a

fine lady; "I have told you a thousand times, Sabina Jane," she continued, "not to be fond of dress!-Well, Tom, what is wanted now?"

"That French gentleman, ma'am, what teached Miss Sabina Jane, is to call early for his money; and if you'd please to give it to me to-night-"

"I can't attend to it to-night-tell him to call again."

"He has called again and again, ma'am; and he says his wife is sick and he looks so distressed-like."

"I have not the money by me to-night, Tom."

"Shall I ask Mr. Finley for it, ma'am?"

"No, Tom."

The image of the unhappy foreigner haunted Tom's imagination; and, after lingering for a moment with the door in his hand, he said-" Maybe ma'am don't remember Mr. Finley gave out the money for Mr. Felix."

Mrs. Finley did remember well that she had received the money, and had spent it that very afternoon for a most tempting piece of French embroidery-" a love of a pocket handkerchief," that cost only thirty dollars!-the price of poor Monsieur Felix's labour for two quarters, with an indolent and neglected child. "Shut the door, Tom," she said; "I can't be bothered about this money now; tell Mr. Felix to call after breakfast." Tom despaired and withdrew. "How impertinent Tom is getting," added Mrs. Finley; "but this is the way of all the servants in

this country."

The housemaid now entered, and announced that Miss Rosa (a three-year old girl) had been throwing up the custard, and pie, and raisins, and so on, that she ate at dinner.

"Dear me! poor thing!" exclaimed the mother, "what a weak stomach she has! Does Nancy want me to come up and see her?"

"Nancy is out, ma'am."

"Out yet? I don't know how she could think of going out at all, when she told me at tea-time that Rosa was feverish. I thought there was one faithful servant in the world, but now 1 give up." Mrs. Finley went to look after her child, while Aikin was making his own mental comments on the reasonableness of

a parent, who expected more fidelity from a hireling for paltry wages, than she practised herself, with all the stimulants of the responsibilities and happiness of a mother. Fortunately, for he had become very impatient, he was not left long to ponder on this inconsistency. Finley came in, dressed and perfumed for the party. "Ah, Harry Aikin,” he said, after a momentary surprise, "is it you-how are you?"

"Well, thank you, Morris."

"What impudence," thought Miss Sabina Jane, "for that man to call my papa Morris !"

"I have some private business with you," added Aikin, glancing at the young lady.

"Sabina Jane," said Finley, " tell your mamma the carriage is waiting these fellows charge so abominably for waiting." This last remark was evidently a hint to Aikin to be brief.

But Aikin wanted no such spur. He communicated concisely Paulina's condition and wants; and, knowing that Finley's conscience was of the sluggish order, he tried to rouse it by recalling vividly to his remembrance the past-the days of Paulina's innocence and beauty, and Finley's devotion to her. But Finley slurred it over like a long-forgotten dream, that would not afford the slightest basis for a claim upon his charity.

"She is in a shocking condition, to be sure, Aikin," he said; "but, then, I make it an invariable rule never to give but to those that I know to be worthy."

"There is much to be done for our fellow-creatures, Finley, besides giving gifts to the worthy."

"Oh, I know that; and I subscribe liberally to several of our institutions."

"But will you do nothing towards encouraging this poor, homeless, friendless creature, to repentance and reformation ?" "Pshaw! Aikin, they never reform."

"If that is true, a part of the sin must lie at our doors, who afford them no helps. But there is no time to discuss this: Paulina, I fear, will not be able to prove her sincerity. She has, it seems to me, but little while to live; if I can save her from the police, I shall try hard to keep her where she is, that her little