It is a well-worn pathway,- Who would share Abraham's blessing, Like him must journey through. Receives the crown at last. So I must hasten forwards,- Is not my destined home. Jerusalem above, The everlasting city, The land of light and love. There still my thoughts are dwelling, 'Tis there I long to be: Come, Lord, and call Thy servant To blessedness with Thee. Come, bid my toils be ended, Let all my wanderings cease; Call from the wayside lodging, To the sweet home of peace! There I shall dwell for ever, No more a stranger guest, The pilgrim toils forgotten, Fternal joys before! Hymns from the Land of Luther. The House-breaker Defeated. HE fear of God delivers us from all other fear. "If God be for us, who can be against us?" The believer may boldly say, "The Lord is my keeper, and I will not fear what man shall do unto me." God has promised to deliver those who trust in him from all evil. And faith in this promise not only gives us Omnipotence for our guardian, but it enables us to be calm and peaceful in the midst of the greatest dangers. "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee." There are many proofs and illustrations of this in the experience of believers. The following well authenticated case is recorded of a Quakeress, the wife of a Derbyshire farmer. In one of the thinly-peopled dales of the Peak of Derbyshire stood a lone house, far from neighbours, inhabited by a farmer and his wife. Such is, or used to be, the primitive simplicity of this district, that it was usual for persons to go to bed without taking any precautions to bolt or bar the doors, in the event of any of the inmates not having come home. This was the practice with the family in question, especially on market-days, when the farmer having occasion to go to the nearest town, often did not return until late. One evening, when the husband was absent, the wife, being up stairs, heard some one open the door and enter the house. Supposing it to be her husband, she expected him to come up stairs. As he did not come, she went down, when, to her terror and astonishment, she saw a sturdy fellow searching the house for plunder. At the first view of him, as she afterwards said, she felt ready to drop; but being naturally courageous, and of a deeply religious disposition, she lifted up her heart in prayer to God, and soon recovered sufficient self-possession to suppress the cry which was rising to her lips, to walk to a chair which stood on one side of the fire-place, and seat herself in it. The burglar seated himself in another chair, which stood opposite, and fixed his eyes upon her with a savage expression. Her courage was almost spent; but she again put up a prayer to the Almighty for protection, and threw herself upon his providence; for "vain was the help of man." She immediately felt her courage revive, and looked stedfastly at the ruffian, who now drew a large claspknife from his pocket, opened it, and, with a murderous expression in his eyes, appeared ready to spring upon her. She, however, showed no visible emotion, but continued to pray earnestly, and to look on the man with calm seriousness. He rose, glanced first at her, then at the knife; again he seemed to hesitate, and wiped the weapon upon his hand; then once more glanced at her, she all the while continuing to sit calmly, calling earnestly upon God. Suddenly a panic appeared to seize him: he blenched beneath her still, fixed gaze, closed his knife, and went out. At a single spring she reached the door, shot the bolt with a convulsive rapidity, and fell senseless on the floor. When she recovered she recognised her husband's well-known step at the door, and heard him. calling out in surprise at finding it fastened. Rising, she admitted him, and in tones tremulous with agitation and gratitude, told him of her danger and deli verance. M Annie's Flowers. OTHER, I am so hungry!" The speaker was a thin, pale-faced little girl, about ten years old; and, as she spoke, she laid down the paper flower she was making, to wipe the tears from her eyes, for fear they should fall and spoil her work. Her mother made no reply, but went on gloomily with her occupation of putting wire stalks to the roses Annie was making. But presently she laid her work aside. "It's of no use," she said in a hard tone; "I am getting blind, I know ;" and she laid her hand across her eyes. In a moment Annie was at her side. "Oh, mother, don't cry," she sobbed; "it will make your eyes worse. I will make the flowers, and you shall take them to the shop and sell them; and I won't mind being hungry one bit." Her mother shook her head. There were no tears in her eyes, but a look of fixed stony despair,-of unutterable misery -as she said, "I don't know what I am going to do with these that we've made, for they don't want any more at the shops." "Oh! mother," gasped poor Annie; "what shall we do then? How is it they can't take any more?" she asked. "I thought people were always wanting paper flowers in the summer for their stoves, and in the winter to put among the holly at Christmas. How is it they don't want any now ?" The woman shook her head. My sight has been failing for a long time, I'm afraid,” she said, in the same hard tone; "and perhaps the flowers have not been made so well as they used to be." 66 "But what shall we do, mother?" asked Annie. "Do, child! why we must die of want, as hundreds of others do here in London." Annie shivered at the tone in which the words were spoken. Oh, mother! it is so hard to think of dying like that," she said. "I know it, child; but I can't help it. I've tried and |