and joined the crowd gathering in the wake of the fastspeeding vehicle.

A house on fire. Fierce flames, leaping from the burning window, were reflected brightly in the winter sky and poured red light on the ground, and the eager faces of the crowd watching the scene.

Suddenly above the roar of the flames rises a scream of anguish: "My child, O God, my child!" It is a woman's voice; and there we see her kneeling on the ground, weeping and wringing her hands. She was the last rescued, unconscious, from the doomed house; but we know, seeing her thus, that her child has been forgotten; we know by the gaze of her eyes that her child is in that burning upper room.

A tremor runs through the crowd. There are brave men and true among that crowd, men whose daily toil brings them face to face with danger and with death; but as they look up to that flaming chamber and see how far short their one ladder reaches, each heart grows sick with despair; what can they do, even though they count their lives as nothing?

"My child-O God-my child!"

The poor mother weeps not alone now; women and even men are crying with her.

A slight movement causes me to turn my head; and just by my side is that ragged boy, still in the tatters in which I saw him first. But a strange light is on the pale face now; a strange light glows in his eyes, fixed where the tearful gaze of the mother is fixed; a light like that which must have filled the eyes of Horatius when he stood forward to keep the bridge; a light like that which must have glowed in the eyes of the men of the Light Brigade as they charged into the "valley of death."

Without a word he springs forward, the light still on his face, still glowing in his eyes. One wild deafening cheer rings out from the crowd; and then with throbbing hearts and bated breath we watch the daring boy. Quickly

:

he springs up the ladder and steps out on the window ledge and then with dizzy eyes we see him clinging to the thick pipe which runs down the front of the house. As by a miracle he reaches the room. O God! how the seconds linger. But at last we see him again, stand ing at one of the windows. Then another wild cheer bursts from each heart, for in his arms he bears the child. The gesture he makes is understood; to descend further is impossible: so strong arms are stretched out to receive the child as he lets it fall. Eager fingers unwrap the thick covering which envelops it, and the mother's arms close around her darling-saved!

A cry is raised that further help is coming; but, alas! it comes too late, for with a great crash the house falls in.

Sorely wounded, almost dead, we find poor little Jim, and bear him from the scene of his glorious deed to a quiet chamber in the vicarage.

All that could be done for him had been done; his broken limbs had been set, and his scorched, burnt flesh had been anointed and bound up. All day long some one had kept watch by his side: and now the night had come, and we knew that it would be the last night on earth for the dying hero. I was waiting with him-waiting for the coming of the hour.

It was very quiet outside; the din and bustle hushed, a beautiful night;. just such a night, I thought, as I should like to pass away in if we could choose the time of our departure. The sky was clear and calm, bright with the light of a million stars, shedding on the snow so beautiful a radiance that I could well-nigh have believed that the golden gates had been open for a space, and that a reflection of the light of the celestial city was shining down upon this time-worn, weary world. Inside the chamber only the restless movement of the dying boy broke the silence. At last he fell into an

uneasy sleep. I held the light above him and gazed into his face, looking almost child-like now, but with the

hand of death already there. Suddenly his eyes opened with a dreamy, far-away look in them. I took his hand in mine and knelt by the bedside, placing my ear close to his white and trembling lips. He was murmuring words of which he seemed unconscious, from which I learnt the inspiration of his grand, heroic act-speaking in broken language of Christ, of his life, and his love, and his self-sacrifice.

Poor Jim, how well you learnt the lesson I had striven to teach that previous Sabbath evening, the lesson which needs such strenuous teaching in this selfish and cynical and luxurious age.

A softer light came into his eyes, and a softer smile played about his lips.

Closer still I bent my head. He was speaking now of the early scenes in the story, at Bethlehem and Nazareth. When full consciousness returned, he recognized me; and we spoke and prayed together. Then I sprinkled water upon the forehead of this nameless Christian.

Just as the cold gray dawn was breaking, the light of eternity broke upon the spirit of poor little Jim. As I folded his hands and closed his eyes, sightless for evermore to things of earth, I prayed for the same spirit as that which had inspired the heart of that brave dead boy, who knew so little and did so much.

SHOUTING JANE*-S. V. R. FORD.

Our minister, good Dr. Kane, a highly "proper man," Announced some extra meetings when "the week of prayer" began,

In order that the saints might be confirmed in hope and zeal, And sinners brought to penitence and everlasting weal.

These special means of grace were held down in the lecture

room

A place as dark and dreary as an Oriental tomb

Where, just behind the preacher's desk, there hung, upon

the wall,

A map of Old Jerusalem, ten feet by twelve in all.

By permission.

It was the custom of the church, in special means of grace, To have" the Fathers" at the front, within the altar place; And by a bench which stood beside and underneath the map, They always knelt in time of prayer, and sometimes "took a nap."

Among the sisters of the church was one named "Shouting Jane,"

So called because she "exercised" with all her might and main,

Who had "high pressure satellites," in number not a few,
To the disgust of Dr. Kane and his "low-pressure crew."

One evening Shouting Jane began her customary prayer,
Which grew in length and volume till the Doctor, in despair,
Resolved to bring it to an end, and with unwonted vim
He started up a stanza of the old familiar hymn:

"What various hindrances we meet"-when oh, the fatal truth!

The blessed hymn was written in long metre, while, forsooth, He'd struck a common metre tune, and all too late he found The music would not float the hymn, and so it ran aground!

Then Shouting Jane paused quickly in the middle of her prayer,

And springing promptly to her feet as" mad as a March hare," Rushed from her pew in double-quick and vanished through the door,

Attended by a retinue of friends, full half a score.

Then some one lifting up the map unhitched it at the top, Whereat it gave a sudden lurch and coming down ker-flop, Embraced "the Fathers" in its folds, and as they, one by

one,

Came crawling out the spectacle created sights of fun.

And with the perspiration fairly dripping from his nose The Doctor said, "My friends, we'll bring this meeting to a

close;

Omitting the doxology, you'll be dismissed with grace; And with the benediction they departed from the place.

And then the friends of Shouting Jane went out and boldly said

"It was a judgment of the Lord upon the Doctor's head For his presumption:" and thenceforth our pastor, Dr. Kane, Was never known to undertake to sing down Shouting Jane.

THE ROSE OF AVONDALE-HELEN BOOTH.*

When he hied him home from chase
Of boar and dappled stag, the lord
Of manors wide, with brightening face,
Unto his henchmen spake this word:

"I soon shall greet my daughter fair,
She, the Rose of Avondale,

She, my widowhood's fond care,
She, whose love for me will fail

Only when her bright eyes close

And death makes ice of her warm heart,
She of Avondale the rose,

Of me my parched life's blooming part."

When they came unto the keep

The Rose of Avondale was away

66

Strange!" quoth the lord. Can it be sleep
Hath made her love a laggard? Nay!"

When they came unto the aisle
Of larches stretching to the hall,
The Rose of Avondale did not smile;
The lord spake to his seneschal :
"Belike she hideth, to surprise
Her father nearer to her home;
We sure will greet her laughing eyes
When to the entrance-hall we come."
When they reached the entrance-hall
There was silence wide and drear;

The lord's cheek blanched, he did not call,
He would not spur his charger near,
He leaped unto the ground: "The Rose
Of Avondale the grief-tears mar,"

He said, "she wrestles with pain's throes,
And I, her father, am afar!"

He entered the dim entrance-hall,
The Rose of Avondale's tire-maiden

Lay dead upon the stone, the wall
With horrid crimson gouts was laden.
"Murder is here!" the lord loud cried,

And "Murder!" echoed through the place

*Author of the romantic old-time drama for amateurs entitled "At the Red Lion," also the charming little comedy, "After Twenty Years," with song, etc., and other plays and recitations to be found in previous Numbers of this Series.