himself by playing a tune. The hermit led him through the forest to the path he sought, wondering much if this could be the man of whom the angel spake. He asked him what good works he had done. The man said he had done nothing: "I am but a poor minstrel, and spend all my time in amusing the people by my flute, and sometimes I sing to them."

"And how art thou so poor?" asked the hermit: "I doubt thou hast wasted thy substance in riotous living."

"Nay, my father; but there was a poor woman, whom I found in great distress, because her husband and children had been sold into slavery to pay a debt. I gave all that I possessed to redeem them, so that I became poor. But why do I speak of that? Is there a man who would not have done the same?"

Then the hermit wept, and said, "I thank thee: thou hast taught me my duty. Thou, a poor minstrel, hast done more good than I whom men call a holy hermit. I see we should do good in little things, if we cannot do great things.'

وو

So he returned no more to his cave, but dwelt among men, and spent the remainder of his days in doing good.

Now, if the thousands of dear children, who read the Lamp of Love, will try this plan, which it took the hermit twenty-five years to learn, what happy hours theirs will be! Do all the good you can, whether it is little or much: do it for Christ's sake, and then in all your conduct there will shine the light of love.

F. W. I.

December 1858.

Thomas Ward,

161

Uncle William & his Heirs, i, 35, 49, 74, 97, 121, 147, 169, 193, 223, 248, 267

What a Dumb Girl said about Prayer,

What a Sunbeam did,

55

22

CHAP. I.—THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.

GATHERED round the door of an old-fashioned country inn, a group of persons might have been seen waiting

A

for the arrival of the daily coach, the Red Rover. One or two were expecting to meet friends by it, while others had something in the way of luggage, showing that they were going a journey; but the greater part were evidently mere idlers, who were there because they had nothing else to do, and were whistling for want of thought, or puffing out huge volumes of tobacco-smoke, as they lounged against the wall.

A dashing carriage, with livery servants, which drew up at the inn door, attracted all eyes towards it. A gentleman and lady and little girl got out and went into the inn, while the group outside occupied themselves with gossip.

"That's Squire Temple, from Eltham Hall," said one; "it isn't often as his carriage is seen in Ribbleton; I wonder what's brought him here."

It was soon discovered that the little girl was Mr Temple's niece, who had resided with him for some time, but was now going in the coach with her aunt, Mrs Clayton, who was taking her away to live with her; and that, moreover, the young lady was an orphan and a great heiress.

It was really surprising that the gossips learned all this so quickly, and still more wonderful that it was true. They were busily discussing Squire Temple, his family, his carriage and horses, when the cheerful Tally-ho" of the horn was heard, and the coach itself came dashing up the street at a tremendous rate; the coachman apparently wishing to delude the good folks of Ribbleton into the idea that such was the ordinary speed of his horses.

Great was the attention paid by the landlord to Squire Temple; and as soon as the coach stopped, and the burly coachman had got down from his box, the landlord said, with an air of great importance,———