gave him such a blow over the nose, that he turned instantly from young Wellings on the noble boy who had come to his defence.

Little Henry Milner was at that moment in the most imminent danger, and what might have been the end of this we know not, had not a dray laden with hay at that instant entered the lane, and an Irish haymaker, who stood at the top of it, sprung like lightning over the hedge, and attacked the bull in the rear with his fork, on which the startled bull turned round, and all the haymakers at once setting up a shout, the wild creature fled to the farther end of the field, leaving the boys to make their escape.

Henry was so much agitated, that he could hardly express his thanks to the good man who had preserved him; but giving him his hand, he begged him to come the next day to his uncle's house, where he hoped, he said, to express his thanks in a better way. After which, he turned to go after Master Wellings, who had slunk away.

When the two boys arrived at Mr. Dalben's, they found that dinner was ready, and Henry was not sorry to hear that the horses were ordered immediately after dinner, as he thereby hoped to be soon delivered from the company of his troublesome visiter.

CHAPTER III.

Containing a Conversation between Henry and Mr. Dalben.

WHEN Mr. Wellings with his son and man-servant rode away from the door, they left Mr. Dalben standing with Henry on the steps, while Thomas remained at a little distance.

"Fetch your hat, Henry," said Mr. Dalben, "and we will have a walk:" and the good man sighed, as if to disburthen his heart from some trouble; for the truth was, that he was quite cast down with the worldly conversation of his visiter.

As soon as Henry was out of hearing, Thomas drawing a little nearer to his master, said, “Well, I can't say VOL. I.-F

but I am as well pleased to see the back of that young spark there, that Master Wellings, as if I had found forty pounds."

"And why so, Thomas?" asked Mr. Dalben.

Thomas then told his master all he had heard and seen in the garden, finishing with the story of the bull, which he had heard from one of the haymakers.

"Oh, my poor Henry!" exclaimed Mr. Dalben, shuddering at the danger his child had incurred through the rashness of his companion. "But this bull, Thomas,” he added, "ought not to be suffered to go at large in a field through which there is a thoroughfare. I will go this moment to Farmer Harris, and speak to him about it; and I sincerely rejoice with you, Thomas, that our guests have taken themselves off so speedily ;" and so saying, he walked out of the garden with Henry, who now appeared with his hat.

Mr. Dalben and Henry had walked a considerable way together before either of them spoke; at length Henry uttered a kind of sigh, which he finished off with something like a whistle; after which he gave a bound, and tumbling head over heels, stood up erect at some little distance.

“What now, my boy,” said Mr. Dalben.

"Because," replied Henry, "I am so glad.”

"And what has made you so glad ?" asked Mr. Dalben, wishing to ascertain whether the little boy would of his own accord mention the affair of the bull.

“I don't know why," he replied; “but I am very glad; and I feel as if some heavy weight was taken off my heart."

“And what was that weight?" said Mr. Dalben; “I can't quite tell,” replied Henry; "and now it is over, I would rather not talk of it—if you please, uncle."

"You do right, Henry," replied Mr. Dalben; and we will not enter on the subject; at the same time, I think it right to say that Thomas has told me of many things which happened to-day; and I am now going to Mr. Harris to speak about the bull; for that fierce animal should not be left at large. And now, my dear Henry, although I will not ask you to repeat to me any thing which passed between you and Master Wellings, I shall take this occasion to point out to you some things which the events of this day have suggested to my mind, which may be useful to you in after-life.

"What, I ask, was there in our visiters to-day which left that feeling of depression on our minds ?-for, I will tell you, that when I came out into this lane I felt so sad that I could hardly bring myself to speak."

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Indeed," said Henry, "I don't know what it was, but I felt it all the while Master Wellings was with me; and though I tried to rouse myself sometimes, and indeed felt myself now and then very high, and very ready to say rude things to him, yet I was unhappy all the morning, and thought the time very long while he was with me."

"Shall I tell you then," said Mr. Dalben, "what it was which made us both unhappy?-it was the spirit of the world, which our visiters brought with them, whereby for a time they spoiled all our peace, and threw a dark shade over our happiness. Look now, my boy, up towards the hills-see you not a little cottage with a garden on the left, and close without the garden-wicket a small patch of very green grass, on which a white horse or cow is feeding?"

"I do," said Henry; for the sun is shining brightly upon that little portion of the hill."

"And how would that little point of land look," said Mr. Dalben, "if a dark cloud were to pass over it?"

"It would look black, and all its bright colours would fade away."

"In this manner, then," said Mr. Dalben, "the spirit of the world was cast over us this morning, and all our pleasant things thrown into the shade. Mr. Wellings found fault with my house, and said, it was too retired; and my books were too old; and my ways too oldfashioned; and my pursuits inglorious. He did not indeed say all this in so many words, but he contrived to convey these ideas every instant to my mind, and his young son poured contempt on all your little innocent amusements, and would have rejoiced to make you dissatisfied with them; and this, my dear boy, is the constant effect of worldly company; and it is grace alone which can enable either a man or a boy to live in the world without being made wicked or miserable, or both, by its corrupting and destroying spirit. I have hitherto, my dear boy, kept you out of the world, and, with the Divine blessing, secured many years of happiness to you; but the time will come, and must come, when you will go into the world, and mix with unholy persons

and it is therefore desirable that you should know what the spirit of the world is, in order that you may not be taken by surprise, or be betrayed by ignorance into a sinful conformity with the ways of ungodly persons. The world, my child, is made up of all those persons who have not yet received new hearts. When the heart is changed, and the sinner born again, he is no longer of or belonging to the world, but is a stranger and pilgrim on earth, as Abraham was in the land of Canaan. Thus you see, my child, that the whole human race may be classed under two heads; viz. those who are of the world, and those who are of the family of Christ: and it is of the greatest importance that you should have very accurate ideas respecting the characters and modes of thinking of these two orders of men; only remembering this, that as the old nature still remains in the regenerate person, though there is another nature implanted within him, so his old bad inclinations often lead him astray, and make him appear to the eye of his fellow-creatures little better than those in whom the seed of life hath not been planted."

"Uncle," said Henry, "I do not understand the last thing which you said about the old and new nature of

man.

Why, my boy," replied Mr. Dalben, "we are taught by Scripture that the type of man is a tree; now, let us compare the world to an orchard filled with crabs, and wild plums, and other trees of the like description; and let us suppose that some skilful gardener should visit this orchard, and select a certain number of these wild trees for grafting, what, I ask, would he first do?"

"He would cut off all the branches from the trees he desired to graft," replied Henry, "till he had reduced them to tall stumps."

"And what next?" said Mr. Dalben.

"Then," said Henry, "he would put in some fruitful branches into the old stocks, and lay the place well over with clay, and so leave them."

"And, if his grafts succeed," returned Mr. Dalben, "and become united to the old stump, how many natures will subsist on each grafted tree?'

"Two," answered Henry; "the new and the oldhe good and the bad."

"True," said Mr. Dalben; "but will the old nature and the new one produce the same leaves and fruit ?"

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"No," said Henry, "certainly not; they will be quite different."

"But, will they both shoot out in spring? that is, will the part under the graft shoot out as well as that which is above?" asked Mr. Dalben.

Yes, to be sure, sir," returned Henry; "for the trees that were grafted in our garden last year shot out so thickly under the graft from the old stock, that I could hardly distinguish the little buds which were coming out from the graft, and Thomas, you know, was obliged to cut them away."

"So it would be in the orchard of which we were speaking just now, if the gardener did not watch his grafted trees, but left them for a while; when he came back, he would probably find all the old stocks flourishing away with their evil leaves and fruit, and the new branches ready to perish. So, regenerate persons, when mixed in the world, speedily yield to the suggestions of their former corrupt natures, and become little different from those who are about them; nevertheless, the spirit of life is in them, and will appear sooner or later, for what God has done in them cannot perish."

"But then, how can we distinguish the children of God from other people?" asked Henry.

"We cannot distinguish them always," replied Mr. Dalben; "nor is it necessary that we should if God knows his own, that is enough. We can only judge of men by their actions, as you would judge of a tree by its fruit."

"Oh!" said Henry, "I think I begin to understand a little of all this now: but uncle, there is one thing which I don't understand; why does the company of worldly people make us unhappy ?"

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Because, my dear child," replied Mr. Dalben, "it is the tendency of those passions and feelings which worldly persons experience in themselves and excite in others, to render human creatures miserable; and if you consider the Scripture account of those things which proceed naturally from the heart of man, you will find that they can only produce misery, and hence worldly persons are incapable of rest, but, like those in fevers, must ever be moving about and seeking something which they hope may abate that mental thirst they ever feel.

"It is a part of the character of a worldly-minded man, to be discontented with what he has, and to desire some