He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach;
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

Which leads us to notice, lastly, that nothing makes the fireside so cheerful as a blessed hope beyond it. Even when you sit most lovingly there-though the daily task is completely done, and the infant in the cradle is fast asleep-though this is Saturday night, and to-morrow is the day of rest-though the embers are bright, and from its fat and poppling fountain in yon coal the jet of gas flames up like a silver scimitar; and though within your little chamber all is peace, and warmth, and snug repose-the roaring gusts and rattling drops remind you that it still is winter in the world. And when that withered leaf tapped and fluttered on the window, mother, why was it that your cheek grew pale, and something glistened in your eye? You thought it perhaps might come from the churchyard sycamore, and it sounded like a messenger from little Helen's grave. It said, "Father and Mother, think of me." Yes, dreary were the homes of earth were it not for the Home in Heaven. But see to it that yourselves be the Saviour's followers, and then to you he says, "Let not your heart be troubled! In my Father's house are many mansions: I go to prepare a place for you." And when you come to love that Saviour rightly, you will love one another better, more truly, and more tenderly. And, trus.ing to meet again in that world where they neither marry nor are given

in marriage, a purifying hope and a lofty affection will hallow your union on earth. And, if not inscribed above your mantel-shelf, there will at least be written in your deepest self the motto, sent to his bride by that illustrious scholar, Bengel

"Jesus in heaven;

Jesus in the heart;
Heaven in the heart;
The heart in heaven."

THE HAPPY HOME.

VII.

DAY DREAMS.

CASPAR RAUCHBILDER was a German, abstruse of mind and able of body. From his ancestors he inherited a blond complexion and a talent for boiling sugar; so that he had no trouble in acquiring either. His calling he pursued far eastward of London's famous Tower, somewhere near the docks, and where many chimneys feed the murky air of Wapping. But the thick atmosphere suited Caspar's thoughtful turn; it favoured mental abstraction, and kept aloof those obtrusive materialisms which he deemed the main obstacles to transcendental discovery. His favourite motto was, "Ex fumo dare lucem;"* and in order to enhance the partial opacity of his abode, he plied a

* "Smoke is the sire of light;" a witty allusion to the lampblack in printers' ink.