asantly laden with the mingled
fragrance of the pines and of the newly-cut hay, fanned the faces of
the children, who in pretty little groups--the flickering shadows of
the pines falling on their light, fluttering summer dresses--were
approaching the church, the grave demeanour of a few of the elder ones
showing that their thoughts were already occupied by the pleasant
exercises of the Sunday school.

Along a quiet, shady path, also leading to the church, a lady was
slowly and thoughtfully walking, on whose countenance a slight shade
of sadness, apparently, contended with happier thoughts. It was Mary
Preston's last Sunday in her old home, previous to exchanging it for
the new one to which she had been looking forward so long; and full as
her heart was of thankfulness to God for the blessings He had
bestowed, she could not take farewell of the Sunday school in which
she had taught for several years, without some regret and many
misgivings. Where, indeed, is the earnest teacher, however faithful,
who can lay down the self-imposed task without some such feelings? Has
the _heart_ been in the work? Have thought and earnestness entered
into the weekly instruction? Has a Christian example given force to
the precepts inculcated? Above all, has there been earnest,
persevering prayer to the Lord of the harvest, in dependence on whom
alone the joyful reaping time can be expected?

Such were some of the questions which had been passing through Miss
Preston's mind; and the smile with which she greeted her class as she
took her place was a little shadowed by her self-condemning
reflections--reflections which her fellow-teachers would have thought
quite uncalled for in one who had been the most zealous and
conscientious worker in that Sunday school. But Mary Preston little
thought of comparing herself with others. She knew that to whom "much
is given, of him shall be much required;" and judging herself by this
standard, she felt how little she had rendered to the Lord for His
benefits to her. As her wistful glance strayed during the opening hymn
to the faces of her scholars, she could not help wondering what
influence the remembrance of what she had tried to teach them would
exert on their future lives.

As her class had been much diminished by recent changes, and in view
of her approaching departure the blanks had not been filled up, it
consisted on this Sunday of only three girls, of ages varying from
twelve to fourteen, but di