"I'll let you go, if you'll give me your new white rabbit." "Oh, it was auntie's present. I can't!"

"I want it. What can girls do with rabbits?"

“Oh, no, no! anything else but that !"

He sat more heavily. May here gave a louder scream than before, which attracted a countryman who was passing on the road close by. "Hey! what are you about? Let the lassie alone."

He let May rise. But Duncan was an obstinate boy, and he had set his mind on having the new white rabbit. So he held her by the hair till the stranger passed on, and now he dragged her down to the river.

In running, they had come some distance, and were now opposite the ford, which is a broader and shallower part of the river, where it can be crossed either on horseback or by wading, which many of the country people do.

"The rabbit!" said Duncan, threateningly.

"No," said May; "I can't!" He seized her, and stepped at once into the water. At first she struggled, but when they were a few yards from the bank, she was quiet, for she knew he might put her in, and it was deep for a little girl.

Duncan turned determinedly, and left poor little May alone in the water. He thought she would be more frightened if he went out of sight, so he jumped over the wall, and hid himself.

"Boat, boat!" echoed through the woods, and Duncan, running to answer the call, found a gentleman in the boat, wishing to cross the river.

When he had taken his passenger to the opposite bank, he meant to hurry back to May, but the gentleman told him he must go to his house, and carry back a fishing-rod.

Duncan dared not refuse; but he felt very unhappy about his little sister, especially as two whole hours passed before he returned; and very miserable he felt at last. He rushed down to the ford; but no little May dotted the surface of the broad river. Duncan was very much frightened. He knew she I could not have come out alone. Had she slipped off the stone and been drowned? At this thought he thrust his fingers distractedly through his red hair.

"May!" he shouted, rather quietly at first. "May, May!" and his trembling voice rose louder and louder, till the rocks in the woods threw back the name, as if mocking him.

So on he went, stumbling and slipping occasionally, until nearly in the middle there was a very He ran up and down in restless large stone. It was not seen from fear, not daring to go home, lest the bank, for it was several inches his mother should inquire where under water. On this stone he placed May; it was very slippery, and she cried while she steadied herself. The current was strong, and she feared, if she slipped off, that it would carry her away and

drown her.

May was. He climbed a tree, and fancied he saw a speck, which might be May, floating away on the rapid river.

At last a horseman galloped past, and alighted at the door of his mother's cottage. It was the doctor.

Duncan crept near, but did not venture to enter. The few minutes that the doctor was in the cottage appeared to him as so many hours. At last the doctor came out, accompanied by Mr. M'Hardy, when Duncan summoned courage to

sneak, with beating heart, into the cottage.

Several women stood around the bed where little May lay, pale and motionless. Duncan expected them to reproach him for his unkindness and cruelty, but they did not know he was the cause of their sorrow. When his mother saw him, she cried, "Oh, Duncan! May was nearly drowned. When your father went into the water to fetch her, she fainted away. She must have been trying to cross the ford."

"Will she die ? stammered guilty, pale-faced Duncan.

"I hope not. I trust not, my boy. The doctor says she may soon be better. Pray for her, for I know you love her."

Duncan could not say his prayers or sleep that night till he had told his mother how wicked he had been and he promised that, if May recovered, he would never treat her cruelly again, but be gentle and kind to his little sister.

It was a long time, however, before he had any opportunity of

putting his good resolutions into practice; for May had a fever, and lay several weeks scarcely expected to live, while Duncan, a much sadder boy, fed the white rabbit, and ornamented its house, so that it might please and surprise his sister on her recovery. Proud and happy he was, too, the first sunny day May could be allowed out of doors. He carried her in his arms like a baby, and, placing her on a seat near the rabbit house, displayed its beauties, took out and fed the pet, then coaxed the little creature to practice the pretty tricks he had taken great pains to teach it.

Duncan and May were happy at last. He kept his good resolution, for his was a severe lesson; and little May, instead of having a tyrant over her, has had, ever since, a very kind protector-just what an elder brother ought to be.

Duncan is now a strong man; and May, though full-grown, is still "little May," and as fond of rabbits as ever.

GOD'S WISE AND TENDER LOVE TO HIS PEOPLE.

BY THE REV. JAMES OWEN.

"Therefore, behold, I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak comfortably unto her."-Hɔsea ii. 14.

"WHATEVER things were written aforetime were written for our learning." The Old Testament has not become obsolete. It is full of living truth for the nations of to-day. There are great principles illustrated in the history of Israel, principles that are abiding, though the whole external framework has passed away. It may matter little to us in this nineteenth century in England who reigned over Israel, what division took place between the tribes, what national calamities overtook them when they were taken into captivity, or when they were But it is of importance to us to know how righteousness triumphed, and God's truth and mercy were vindicated. It is of importance to us to know that sin against God was then, as it is now, madness and misery-that neither individuals, nor families, nor nations can depart from Him without finding that "it is an evil and a bitter

thing" to forsake Him-that the principles of the Divine administration have in all ages been the same. We are not digging in the mine of ancient history for worthless relics, but for precious treasures, that are as valuable now as ever they were. We see the struggle between the Divine love and the perverse human will. We may wonder that the Israelites were so ungrateful, so rebellious, so forgetful of Him whose right arm and outstretched hand had time after time brought them deliverance, so prone to depart from Him and to fall into idolatry. But if we look upon ourselves, we see the exact counterpart. We have our defections; we have our idols; we go astray as they did from God. It is true they had miracles in their history; but God was not a whit nearer to them on that account. The eye that fails to see and acknowledge God in the cornfield, would also fail to see Him in the manna. We have far greater light than Israel had; and yet we are forgetting God every day. In this chapter we have an account of His dealings with His people, and His wise and tender love to them. He says in the sixth verse, "Therefore, behold, I will hedge up thy way with thorns, and make a wall, that she shall not find her paths.' What does this mean, but that God would impose restraints and place barriers in the way of sin, would make sin difficult and painful to the people? In addition to conscience, the inward monitor, there are outward checks placed by God to restrain men, and hinder them from the commission of sin.

Toil is a restraint. The sentence of toil, "like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in its head." The curse fell on the soil, and the curse fell on man ; but the curse has been turned into a blessing. "Be ye not," says the psalmist, "as the horse or as the mule, which have no understanding, whose mouth must be held in with bit and bridle." Toil is a bit and bridle to the wayward, the vicious. Men whose passions would carry them and others to destruction are placed between the shafts of toil, and they are tamed, checked, restrained. What made Sodom what it was, a place too guilty and defiled to remain any longer on God's earth? The prophet answers, "Pride, fulness of bread, and abundance of idleness." The wave of prosperity often leaves behind it the rubbish and foam of licentiousness. More money too generally means more idleness, and more idleness means more sin. Now, suppose there could be a general lock-out from the workshop of the world, and the announcement were made, "There is to be no more work, but abundance of bread for nothing, what would be the result? The earth would become like Sodom and Gomorrha. But toil is a restraint. God has hedged up our way with thorns literally; and has said to us, "Clear the wilderness; drain the morass; plough the field; build the city; and in the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread."

Pain is also a restraint. There is pleasure in sin. It is not real, it is not enduring; but there it is, and the sinner is attracted by it. The forbidden tree is "pleasant to the eyes;" but death is standing

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by it. The sinfulness of sin may be inferred from its bitter con> sequences; for misery cannot be the result of obedience to the blessed God. There must be disloyalty, there must be disorder, there must be sin, as the parent of the suffering and misery. The very word, pain," implies this moral aspect. Pain is punishment; it is the penalty of sin; it is therefore a restraint. God has made a hedge round about us, "and whoso breaketh the hedge, a serpent shall bite him." Take away the sting of the serpent, take away all pain and suffering, and would not this sinful world become a pandemonium? I might name other restraints; but after all, they are only restraints. There must be something more in order to bring us into a state of reconciliation to God; and we find it in these words, "I will allure her," etc. God not only checks, but draws-not only resists, but allures-not only builds a wall and stops up the road of death, but He opens and directs to another road, a road of holiness, a road of life. He rebukes the people in order to save them, chastises them in order to heal them, weans them from their idol worship, and draws them to Himself.

1. He wins them by love. He "allures," persuades, woos, attracts. God respects man's freedom. To compel a man to keep God's law, and to reverence His authority, would be impossible. God Himself cannot compel us to trust Him and love Him. He has constituted us moral beings; we are conscious of our freedom. No arguments, no system of philosophy or of theology, can rob us of this consciousness. God does not say to birds and animals what He says to men, "Come now, let us reason together." His commands, His invitations, His promises, all imply that man is free. He is not treated like a block of wood or stone, though his moral obduracy is compared to the flinty rock. But He is drawn, as the sun draws the dew upwards on a summer's morning. God influences the motives, the desires, the judgments, the affections; operates on the secret power of the will; "works in us both to will and to do of his good pleasure." Thoughts are brought into captivity; but it is a sweet slavery. The Good Shepherd does not send dogs after His flock; but He goes before them, He calls them by name, and they follow Him.

The only power that can win men from their sin is love. There is no access to the inmost soul without love. Love has the key that fits every lock in the different chambers of the soul. Love is like the light opening the flower. The flower is blighted by the cold nipping blast, killed by the frost, closed by the darkness of night; but beneath the warm sunbeams it opens, expands, becomes more and more beautiful. And the soul that remains hard and closed before the cold winds of rebuke and the icy breath of Pharisaic pride opens before love like the soul of Lydia, and receives the word. The criminal in his cell is sullen and silent, but some kind philanthropist enters his cell, with love beaming from the eye, and trembling in the voice, and the love has found an entrance into that criminal's heart before he is aware,