It was a bright winter's night, upon which the poachers had fixed to rob a preserve of pheasants at the end of the parish. They met at the spot fixed upon, and went at once to their work, some watching, and some snaring the birds. Two hours were already spent, and they had secured a great many birds, when a low whistle gave the alarm. Some keepers were coming on their rounds to see that all was quiet, not knowing that the poachers were so near. It was resolved to hide, and avoid a fight. Accordingly, the poachers concealed themselves as they could in the shadows of the large trees, and in thick bushes of holly. But this did not save them; for the keepers had a large dog which soon found one of the men, and seized him by the leg. The man could not shake him off, and in a few minutes the keepers were upon him. Meanwhile, the rest of the gang sneaked out of their hiding places, and ran off on the other side of the wood, except Edward, who would not abandon his comrade. He was close by, and watching his opportunity, he rushed on the keepers whilst they were tying his companion's arms; and knocking one over, grappled with the other, calling on his friend to run whilst he could. But the dog had seized him again, and Edward

then had to defend himself against two men, both stronger than he was. He gave and received some desperate blows, as he tried to fall back on the wood, and the keepers pressed upon him. At last, excited with pain and the closer and closer nature of the fight, he lost all command of himself, and defending himself with one arm, he drew a large clasp-knife from his pocket, opened it with his teeth, and then turned upon his pursuers. They hesitated a moment, but not more, and then closed with him. The struggle was short and sharp. In three minutes Edward was a prisoner, and secured; and one of the keepers rose from kneeling upon him, pressed his hand to his side, which was bleeding fast, and fell fainting to the ground. Meantime, help had come from the next farm, where the noise had been heard, and the prisoners and the wounded man were carried away. Edward had been in prison some days before Mr. Trelawny was able to visit him. The trial was coming on, and it was still doubtful whether the wounded keeper would recover. He was sitting with his arms crossed in sullen despair, when the door of his cell opened, and Mr. Trelawny stood before him. Edward's better feelings were roused; he could

not bear such kindness, and he turned away without speaking.

It will not throw any more light on Edward's character to mention all that passed at this meeting, and the others which followed. Mr. Trelawny never left his parishioner until by sympathy, and warning, and earnest prayer, he had brought him to repentance. Then it mattered little what was the issue of the trial; for if God pardons, all else is as nothing.

Edward Elford is now a convict: but he is a happier man, although disgraced, and far away from all whom he loves; he is a happier man than he ever was after his recovery from the injury of the bull. He would not put himself to shame, so he fell into sin, and brought shame an hundredfold upon himself. Edward dreaded a little laughter of fools, and had to bear the shame of a felon. But now he is a changed man; and, when last he wrote to his kind vicar, he said: "O Sir, if I had not been ashamed of doing my duty, I should never have been here. But I am thankful, I hope, even for this; for God has not left me, though I left Him; and I trust Christ will not be ashamed even of such a sinner as I am, when He comes in judgment !"

JOHN HENRY FARKER, OXFORD AND LONDON.

PATIENCE IN AFFLICTION.

I was proceeding on my morning round to visit the sick people of the parish, when on turning into Church lane, I came suddenly upon a medical man whom I knew, I may say, happily, for he was most kind to the poor.

"You are the very person that I wanted to see," said he, holding out his hand. After mutual expressions of good wishes for each other's health, he pointed to a house,

"No. 11," he said, "I think it is, in that house is a woman suffering under one of the most terrible diseases which falls under our observation, internal cancer; I have been sent for to attend her professionally, and the daughters have so plainly told me their circumstances, that I am satisfied they would pay me in time, if they made almost any exertion to do so; I need not tell you that I shall never take any thing from them; the poor woman is a widow, there are two daughters, shirt-makers, and the son, a lad, is apprenticed to a carpenter, but

not earning sufficient to pay for his food; they are all very neat; and here is a new difficulty, I suggest necessaries, a little French brandy, some good arrow-root; they say 'Yes,' they will get it, perhaps they get one thing, and omit another. I know the real truth to be this, they have no means : the poor woman must die of her disease, though I know not how long she may linger. I really cannot afford to give them money, though I will give them medicine and attendance. I have just said that you would visit them and pray with her, and that if I met you, I would ask you to call; now," he said, they are in your hands, I shall be quite satisyou will do what is best for them."

fied

I thanked him for the information he had given me, and for the opportunity of performing my duty to a sick parishioner; going straight to the house, it was No. 11; I knocked at the door, and a child came :

Does Mrs. Lyons live here ?" I said.

"Yes sir, up three pair and turn to your right; you knock three single knocks for her, a double for us. Miss Lyons," shouted the child, "Miss Lyons, here's some gentleman wants you.'

Passing the child I went up stairs, and upon the second landing, lighted by an open door,