at innate love of the beautiful and true which comes from
God alone; but the world looked coldly on him, and he was struggling
with what seemed endless disappointments, battling with them bravely,
yet almost sinking amidst the strife. His very heart was beginning to
fail him, his noble courage to give way, when he saw me there,
blossoming alone in that quiet nook.

'Oh, God!' he cried, as, with clasped hands and eyes raised heavenward,
he sank beside me on the sod,--'oh, God, forgive me that I should dare
to doubt Thy loving care, when this fragile, fragile flower, sheltered
by Thee, has braved the wintry storms, while the cold winds pass
tenderly over its bowed head. A bruised reed Thou wilt not break; Thou
carest for the lilies of the field,--why then should I fear when
adversity assails me? Art Thou not still above, though heaven seems so
far off, and oh, so cold and pitiless! I will have faith in Thy divine
and fatherly love, and accept the lesson this sweet flower hath taught
me.'

* * * * *

Yes, faith--faith in God, was the parable I was sent to teach, and I
also have learned to know that, though the skies may be dark and the
winds--oh, so cold! yet if we only wait, and trust Him, the sunshine
will come at last, and the breath of heaven never visit us too roughly.

PARABLE THIRD.

THE FOXGLOVES' STRATAGEM--GRATITUDE.

We lived on the garden wall of an old-farmhouse, over which the vines
grew in rare luxuriance, covering it with their climbing tendrils and
leaves; and in the autumn the purple and white grapes peeped from
beneath their leafy shelter, mocking the thirsty throats of the village
lads who passed that way, and who looked longingly up at the ripe
clusters.

It was a very old place, I am told, and had been inhabited by the same
family for many successive generations. Fathers had tilled the soil,
then laid aside the plough for ever. Sons had sprung up to take their
place, and they too, in their turn, were gathered in, when the bearded
grain was ripe for the sickle of the great 'Reaper, whose name is
Death,' leaving the old homestead to others of the same name and race,
who loved the home in which they were born, and wherein those they most
cherished had lived and died.

The Swallows, too, loved it, returning year after year to their nests
under the eaves, and from early dawn 'to dewy eve,' all through the warm
summer days, flew hither and thither with swift,