rough, disordered masses about her face, with pieces of shavings sticking to her clothes, and her little brown hands anything but clean, Jessie certainly did not present a very elegant appearance; but the honest glance of her loving brown eyes won her aunt's heart at once, and the angry rebuke of her mother was interrupted quickly by Aunt Martha, who, taking the rough head kindly between her hands, said—

"Don't scold the child, sister: we have all been children once; and this is a loving, honest face, that can't belong to a very naughty child, I think.".

"She is a naughty child, Martha. What business had you in the shed, when I said you should go there no more ?-it's not a place for girls. You should bide at home with your needlework, or your book, or something, quiet and steady. I shall never make anything of you, I fear."

Jessie made no answer, only still kept her steady gaze on her aunt's face, as though to discover if in truth she had found a friend.

"Your aunt's going to dine with us," exclaimed Mrs. Hay; "so go and make yourself tidy, Miss, though you'll only get bread and water for your dinner. Go on, Lucy, dear, with your sister, though I don't know that you want doing much to-you're always tidy."

When the children had left the room, Aunt Martha made it a particular favour to herself that Jessie should be forgiven, and have her dinner with the rest; and as Aunt Martha was that favoured individual—a rich relation—her request was granted, and poor little Jessie was permitted to partake of beef and pudding with the rest of the family.

Before Aunt Martha went away that night, she and Jessie were fast friends. She gave each of her little nieces a silver thimble, and said that she hoped she should see them when she came again, and that they would show her some of the work they had done with them.

Jessie was very sorry to see her aunt go away, and called after her as she turned the corner of the street-"Do come again soon!"-for which she got nothing but an angry push from her mother, for her aunt was too far off to hear what she said.

Jessie and Lucy went to school in the village; and they would have been there on this day, only it was Saturday, which is always a holiday. On Monday morning they both started off, carrying their thimbles in their pockets, proud enough, as you may suppose, of having silver ones. They had some little way to walk, and Lucy kept taking hers out of her pocket and flourishing it about on her finger. Once or twice Jessie.

said

"Take care, Lucy-you'll lose it." But Lucy only gave her some pert answer, and went on. At length she gave her finger one unlucky twist, and off flew the thimble; but where had it flown to ?-that was the question: It was not to be seen anywhere. The road had just been repaired, and was full of stones-doubtless, it was among them. But if so, where would their search end?—not in time for them to get to school, certainly.

"You run on," said the good-natured Jessie, "and I'll stay and hunt. I don't mind a scolding so much as you do, and if I do lose my place in the class, I'll soon pick it up again."

"But I wanted to show my thimble directly I got into school," said Lucy, beginning to cry.

Jessie could not bear to see her cry, so, taking her own thimble out of her pocket, she said—

"Take mine, then-they're both alike—and I can have yours when I find it. There, do run on, dear, and don't cry any more."

"Oh, thank you, dear, dear Jessie, you are so good," said Lucy, quickly leaving off crying; and, taking her sister's thimble, off she ran to school, whilst Jessie remained busily looking for the lost one.

It was a quiet little village, and but few persons were to be seen about it; but those few who did pass asked her what she was searching for, and some even helped her for a few minutes, but in vain; so, fearing certain disgrace at school if she did not soon make her appearance, she turned away, determining to have another search on her return. The village clock struck ten as she entered the school; she was received, of course, with an angry rebuke, an order to go to the bottom of the class, and the information that she was to be "kept in." She would not have cared for all that so much if she had found the thimble; for the gratification it would have afforded her sister would have been her consolation. But now she had to sign to her that it was not found, and the fact that she was to be "kept in" would prevent her having another search for it. At twelve o'clock Lucy went home without her, and Jessie remained to finish a task that ha been set her, and which would at least take her half an hour. One or two children who lived a long way off had brought their dinners, and seeing them eat theirs made Jessie feel very hungry; but though they all goodnaturedly offered her a piece she would not stop from her task to eat it. She got it done at last, and was permitted to go home.

Her mother saw her coming, and opened the door to her.

"You naughty child!" she said; I'll take care and let your aunt know how well you've kept her pretty present-you careless little thing you! It's useless to give you anything, it's broken or lost directly; and now, do you think I'm going to give you any dinner, coming in just as it's half over ?"

"Yes, yes, mother," said her father, "give the child some dinner; she didn't lose the thimble on purpose."

"Ah, Henry! that's the way you go on; I shall never do anything with her while you take her part;-come and eat your dinner then, as your father says so." But poor Jessie had flung herself down in one corner of the room, and was weeping bitterly; the scolding, the loss of her place at school, and her dinner, mattered nothing, but that her sister, whom she had tried to serve, should have told an untruth about her, was hard indeed.

"Come, come, lassie," said her father, kindly; "don't take on so; eat your dinner-you did not mean to lose the thimble-Aunt will forgive you, I'll be bound."

But poor Jessie sobbed on-her little heart felt breaking-she could only say, "I can't eat any, dear father;" she would not say that Lucy had told an untruth. And so her father went out to work, and her mother cleared her untouched dinner away-and still poor Jessie sobbed in the At length it was time to go to the afternoon school, and her mother told her, if she was not ashamed to be seen such a figure, she had better go off with her sister. Slowly rising and drying her eyes, and pulling down her bonnet and cloak from the peg, which she threw on certainly

corner.

without the least regard to appearance, she followed Lucy out of the cottage.

"Jessie, dear," said Lucy, as soon as they were outside, "I am so sorry; I'll buy you some bull's eyes-I've got a penny."

Jessie must be excused for feeling so angry that she could not answer. Lucy went on-" Mother said, as soon as I went in, "Where's Jessie ?' and I said you were kept in for being late; and she said, 'What made you late?' and I said, you stopped looking for the thimble. I didn't say your thimble; but she flew out directly, and said she'd beat you for losing it, and I was afraid then to say it was mine; and she asked directly for mine to put away, and kissed me for having got it safe, when I gave her yours, and I could not say anything, Jessie. I should die if mother was to scold me as she does you; but I'll run back and tell her now, Jessie, if you like."

Lucy had said all this in an eager breathless manner, gazing earnestly with eyes filled with tears in her sister's face. Jessie's anger vanished at once, and she said, "No, Lucy, I'm used to scolding; better me than you. Mother won't say any more if I go home with a cheerful face, and I shall be no worse off than before I had a thimble; keep mine and welcome, and let's forget it." And as she spoke these generous words, the little girl remembered the story in Holy Writ of him who was falsely accused, but came at last to great honour, heartily forgiving those who had injured him. And her step soon recovered its lightness, and her loving face its gladsome smiles; and her joyous laugh rang out the loudest as with the rest of her schoolmates she sauntered home that evening in the light of the setting sun.

A few weeks after, their Aunt Martha came again to see them; and, after some little conversation, requested to see the thimbles and the work that had been done with them.

"Oh, Jessie lost hers next day! a careless little thing; and Lucy asked me to take care of hers, so no work has been done with it—but I can show you Lucy's;" and, unlocking a box, her mother produced the thimble. Aunt Martha looked at it all over, silently, for a moment; and then calling Jessie to her, said very kindly

"Where did you lose your thimble, my dear?"

Poor Jessie looked first at her mother, then at Lucy, and then on the ground, before she replied; but finding they said nothing, she answered"It was lost in the street."

"And what were you doing with it in the street ?"

"Lucy and I were going to school."

"Did you lose it out of your pocket, dear? tell me the truth."

But this was too much for Jessie, and with a trembling voice she said"Please don't ask me any more, dear Aunt Martha."

There is no occasion to ask you any more, my dear little girl; I know it all. This is your thimble, and the lost one is Lucy's. I marked them, in case of any dispute; there is the little cross I placed inside Jessie's; Anne," she continued, turning to the mother, who was looking from one to the other in amazement, but suddenly she exclaimed

"Let me see the thimble a moment. It is Lucy's-at least, the one you gave her; for I marked hers directly, knowing how often there's quarrels about things. There's the mark on the edge I made with a knife."

Lucy gave a sigh of relief, but Jessie was perfectly bewildered, knowing

so well it was her own thimble; how could it bear the mark her mother had placed on Lucy's?

"Well," said Aunt Martha, "it's very strange; but I'm by no means satisfied. The other thimble may yet be found, and if it is, we will look at them carefully together. And now, Anne, I want you to let Jessie come home with me for a day or two."

How Jessie's eyes brightened up at the thought-what joy to ride home in the cart between her aunt and uncle on that lovely summer evening; what delights were anticipated from a visit to uncle's farm!

After a few happy days Aunt Martha brought her back, having quietly won from Jessie during her visit the story of the lost thimble; she was now determined to see the child righted, and Lucy, if possible, shamed out of her deceitful and treacherous conduct; but before she could begin the subject, Mrs. Hay said

"Oh! by the bye, Martha, the lost thimble's found. An old man working on the road picked it up, and carried it home to his old missis, who brought it to me last night, as she'd heard we'd lost one. Here it is, but beat and battered enough. I've not had time to look at them together." Aunt Martha took the thimble, and said—

"Look here, Anne; here's your mark, but no cross of mine. This is a sad story of a little girl's deceit.”

Finding that all hope of longer concealment was at an end, Lucy threw herself down before her mother, and, with passionate tears and sobs, interrupted with supplications for pardon, told all the truth: how Jessie had so generously given her her thimble; and how she, as she came home, remembered that her mother had marked hers; and so she had borrowed a knife of a boy to make a similar mark on Jessie's.

The poor mother was, of course, deeply distressed at this proof of her favourite child's duplicity-but in consideration of her having at length told the whole truth, and through poor Jessie's earnest entreaties, Lucy was not punished: the misery she herself had felt ever since the deception had been punishment enough.

This incident, however, worked a happy change for Jessie. Her mother could not but acknowledge her generous conduct, and by Aunt Martha's advice, tried quite a new kind of treatment with her; so that, though she lost none of her bright, joyous spirits, she learnt to keep them in proper check; and, in gratitude to her mother for her altered manner and increased kindness, strove to be quiet, gentle, and tidy, as she wished her to be. On Lucy the lesson was not lost; and though her character was never so fine as her sister's, she never forgot what she had suffered in this, her first attempt at deceit and falsehood, and wrestled with the temptation whenever it again assailed her. She kept the battered thimble always by her, and often, years after, in winter evenings, by the light of the wood fire, she would tell her own little ones, as a lesson and a warning, the story of the Two Thimbles.

ACH day, month, and year of our lives, we pass through thousands and millions of miles of space; we are carried on our annual journey with a velocity rather more than nine times that of a cannon-shot; we are swung round on the surface of a large ball every twenty-four hours, and are thus carried into sunlight, and turned again into darkness, with a regularity which is unceasing. Yet, in spite of this rushing and swinging, we may repose in our arm-chairs as calmly and as easily as though the world were immovable and were subject to no changes.

Grand indeed is the machinery

which thus performs its work,

and which, whilst acting by invisible means, still orderly and silently produces its effects, and is sufficiently powerful to carry this great world, with