that Thou wouldest hide me in the grave, that Thou wouldest keep me secret (as in a quiet resting-place) until Thy wrath be past, that Thou wouldest appoint me a set time, and remember me." We see then that nearly every human being at times eagerly desires and craves for rest, and yet perhaps if they were asked to explain what their idea of rest really is, they would hardly know how to reply. Few people have the same conception of rest. They have severally perhaps a dim fancy of cessation from toil, a mere forgetfulness, as it were, or a vague dreamlessness, but no true answer can be given by any human being to the question, "What is rest ?" because no human being has ever really experienced it. Poets have endeavoured to place before their readers pictures of quiet and peace. Great writers have described sensations of what they term "rest," but pictures and descriptions alike when put to the trial, the test of experience, are found to be wanting, in what we know by instinct and reason to be the essentials of genuine rest.

Nature-perhaps the truest poet and grandest writer-in some of her many moods, furnishes emblems and symbols of what the rest above may be like. Not indeed perfect, wanting truly in many important points, but still something resembling in outline to the great original," the rest that remaineth," something like that quiet calm and peace which can only be known in its entirety when this life has passed away.

"And yet there is peace for man, yea there is peace

Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene;

When from the crowd, and from the city far,

Haply he may be set (in his late walk

O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the boughs

Of honeysuckle, when the sun is gone,

And with fixed eye, and wistful, he surveys

The solemn shadows of the Heaven sail,

And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time

Will waft him to repose, to deep repose,

Far from the unquietness of life, from noise

And tumult far, beyond the flying clouds,

Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene,

Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no more."1

And so some may imagine that rest is most likely to be found in the glorious summer-time, when the harvest crops are ripe, and the earth is warm and basking in the light of the glorious orb of day, Henry Kirke White.

1

when hardly a leaf bestirs itself or a blade of grass moves, and not a ripple forms on the surface of the quietly gliding stream. Others may think it is by the placid lake, lying embosomed in the midst of the eternal hills, shining like a burnished mirror beneath the rays of the setting sun; others in the dashing of the moaning surf upon the rocks, and in the hearing of the sea. But touching in their quiet pathos and calm as their restfulness may seem, the bright scenes remain only for a moment, truly typical of the fleeting character of the quiet and peace, that it is possible to enjoy here. And thus if we are to look for real rest, we must search for it in a different way to the ordinary people of the world, and we can at the best only hope to realise it not in this earth of ours, but in another and a better country-Heaven.

The Christian, as has been observed with truth, when he enters into the regions of death rests from all his labours and his fears. And does not the very aspect of a quiet graveyard speak to us of rest and peace?"There the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor. The small and great are there, and the servant is free from his master. There the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." There the Christian sleeps well after life's fitful fever, never more to be troubled by sin, or sorrow, or pain. Nothing there can distract or weary him any more, "the busy heart is quiet at last and the weary head lies still." But let us remember that after all the grave is not our final resting-place, let us remember that the "rest that remaineth" is not to be enjoyed there, but in the realms of light above, where in the beatific presence of GOD, our souls by nature restless, shall at last find rest in Him. And oh, let us, in the midst of all our toil and trouble, when we are almost overwhelmed with care, look forward even in our tribulation with rejoicing to the grand and glorious time when all our sin and sorrow shall cease utterly and for ever, when

"The night shall be filled with music,

And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away;"

and when the words addressed to Israel of old shall be uttered to and understood by us, as clothed with a meaning they never seemed to have before; "Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw herself, for the LORD shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended."

G. T. S.

S. MARY MAGDALENE.

S. JOHN XII. 3.

'Twas the hour when One in Israel
Entered in to Simon's feast,
Worn with love's unceasing venture
For the greatest and the least—
He with love-light in His eyes

'Mid a world that love denies.

When the winds from Simon's garden,
From the oleanders fair,
And the lilies in the moonlight

Kiss'd the tesselated stair,
Mary knelt beside His feet,

Mary brought her nard so sweet.

Strange and subtle through the rafters,
And the golden ceilings crept,

As a mighty wave of fragrance,
From the hands of her that wept,
Ever through that lordly hall
That sweet odour over all.

And they whispered in the twilight,
All those guests around the board,
"Never yet such wondrous fragrance
Since the Garden of the LORD,
Since the Angel's flaming sword,
Kept the Paradise of GOD."

And it filled the rich man's dwelling,
That it seemed a holy place,
Where from every dusky entrance,
Looked an angel's lovely face.

And the song that smote the breeze,
From the saints upon their knees.

ANDRÉ.

CHAPTER I.

It was evening; over the little village of S. Challotte reigned a silence and repose, almost dreamlike. One or two groups of children played quietly in the street; the mothers gossiped together at the cottage doors, or looked out across the sea, watching for the fishingboat which was bringing home husband, or father, or son; old men smoked contentedly in front of the Cabarêt, with an occasional attempt at conversation that generally fell rather flat; it had been such a broiling, exhausting day, that actually these lively Norman folk felt indisposed even for the slight exertion of speech.

S. Challotte is a pretty little fishing village on the coast of Normandy; it consists merely of one straggling street, or place, round which are scattered white cottages, fragrant orchards, and golden cornfields. Surrounded by a small wood, stands the Chateau de S. Châle, on a slight eminence west of the village; it is a quaint old building, belonging to a noble family, which has seen better days, but in the eyes of the S. Challotte villagers, it is a very magnificent place indeed, the pride of the country-side.

Down on the beach there was some sign of more active life. Boys wading in the rippling water, and like boys all the world over, giving clamorous notification of their existence, and of the healthful condition of their lungs. Some of the smacks had already returned, and brown nets were spread out on the sands to dry.

Standing on a rock, round which the water lapped softly, was a young girl, dressed in the picturesque Normandy fashion, with a white cap on her pretty dark head; for undoubtedly she was pretty, very pretty. A regular French beauty, with black hair and eyes, a dark complexion, red lips, a soft glow in the cheeks; a bright, coquettish face, full of vivacity and expression, and eyes that tore the hearts of the fisher lads this way and that, in a manner that amused the fathers, angered the mothers, and smote the other girls with envy. However, Nannette Roemond was a good girl, at the core; tender-hearted, quick to do a kindness, and the best daughter in all the world to old Pierre Roemond, who was one of the richest proprietaires of S. Challotte. Nannette was not left long alone; a young fellow had recognised

the graceful, girlish figure, and coming up quietly behind her, had suddenly cast his net skilfully over her head, calling out gaily,

"Ah! we will see who is caught this time! The game is not always to be on your side, Nannette."

"What will you take to release me," asked Nannette, who, judging from a smile lurking round her mouth, had not been very unwillingly taken captive, "coward that you are, Gaspard ?"

"Ho! ho! I am a coward, am I? Well, see how easily I will let you go! Let us say, for a-kiss ?"

Nannette's eyes gleamed through the net work, and she shook her head resolutely, deigning no response to this remark.

"Not? ah, you are proud! say then, a rose from your garden." After a little demur, Nannette accepted this condition, and, having gained her release, danced over the sands, up the pathway in the cliff, whilst the young sailor followed her, just far enough behind to enable him to watch her lithe movements, and yet near enough to carry on a brisk conversation.

They found old Pierre Roemond, dozing and smoking in his garden, with lazy half-shut eyes; and after a sleepy inquiry of Gaspard concerning the day's fishing, and a "GOD bless thee, little cabbage," to his daughter, he relapsed into his former drowsiness, and left the two young people to their own affairs.

"Now, tell me, Nannette," began Gaspard, "am I to enjoy the Fête to-morrow ?"

"How can I tell? one cannot judge for other people in these matters." You can, because you know it all depends on you!"

"Why, I would not spoil any one's pleasure for the world," said Nannette, burying her face amongst the roses, and raising her eyes innocently, "for my part, I hope every one will be happy."

"Then give me what I want! The Fête-day falls on your birthday to-morrow, and you are to be queen of the day, Nannette, and I want you to-to belong to me-for the dance," said Gaspard, boldly, drawing a step nearer.

Impossible! I have been asked already, by one, two, three others! And now you come, last of all, and expect me to say 'yes' to you!" cried Nannette, impatiently, though Gaspard fancied he could detect in her voice a sound of disappointment that he had not asked her "There is Jean Morel-"

sooner.

"Bah! an idiot!" muttered Gaspard.