his victim, towards the vortex of destruction. He first tried to interest his mind in an innocent game at cards, in connection with his giddy sister. Then he tried the bottle, and though he found his subject rather hard to master, for the conscience of young Grant was powerfully at work, still, by degrees, a final conquest was no doubt possible. So time passed, and with its flight, went the fair fame of John Grant. For before he knew his danger, he found himself tightly bound up in the folds of his serpent-like foe, scarcely able to move hand or foot. Alas! the power of the tempter! Alas, that so many of our youth are so easily led away by his insinuating power.

But where, in the meantime, were the watchful eyes of Mary Grant and her Parents? Were they ignorant entirely of the danger which threatened their family peace and welfare? And was the wicked one permitted to blind their eyes to their present dangers, so as to be overwhelmed with destruction, before they knew it? By no means. The ever watchful and jealous eye of Mary Grant, over the conduct and happiness of her brothers and sisters, was, to a great extent, open to the dangers with which the peace of her father's family was threatened, and her own dear brother's welfare, for time and eternity was endangered. And often and carefully did she watch his conduct with a tender sister's fondest care, and when he was away, mingling with these children of Sodom, in their guilty and ruinous plays and sports and sprees, she was in her quiet closet, on the bended knee, endeavoring to prevail with God in behalf of her endangered brother. With filial tenderness, too, did she break the sad news of her brother's rapid downfall to her beloved parents; and then in the exercise of that good sense for which she was so much distinguished, did she earnestly request her Parents, not to bring their son to task immediately, but simply unite with her at a throne of grace in his behalf; and leave the balance of the work to herself. So much did Mr. and Mrs. Grant love their daughter, and so much confidence had they in her good sense and piety, that they readily complied with her request, and only betook themselves to earnest prayer, that the Lord might still interpose and save their first born.

About two weeks after this time, on a beautiful moonlight evening, John Grant was at home. The previous week had been spent in a very sorry and disgraceful manner; and now, conscience was working its way, and burning, like a ball of fire, in this young man's heart. Consequently, he felt like remaining at home; still once more under the eye of his tender Parents and beloved sister.

It was a solemn, though beautiful evening. Mary was there, and sat very near to John. And there were the doating Parents, and the younger children, servants and all. The hearts of these Parents were full, and so was Mary's.

Finally, the hour of worship arrived. The Father took down the well known Bible from its place, and the first passage that caught his eye was, the Parable of the Prodigal Son. Solemnly did he proceed to read it—his own heart almost bursting asunder. The Mother's heart, too, was ready to break. And from Mary's eye might have been seen the burning tear, wending its way down her cheek. The passage being read, they all bowed in prayer; and never was old Mr. Grant nearer heaven in his pleadings, than he was that night.

After worship, when all had retired but Mary and her brother, her soul seemed to be filled with unusual hope and longing in his behalf. She determined to hesitate no longer, but break her mind to her still dear brother, and endeavor to employ her influence in saving him. She kindly requested him to walk with her in the lawn. The night was so pretty, it was pleasant to be out. And as they gazed upon the white moon, and the bright stars, and the beautiful clear sky, her trembling and tender heart affectionately opened the subject of her griefs and fears. She told him all. She spoke of his early training and early instructions. She spoke of the former respect he enjoyed in society, before his late sad associations. She pointed him to the grief of their fond and tender parents, and told him to look upon their deeply saddened looks. She admonished him of the value of his precious soul, and the sin of insulting, thus, a beloved Saviour, in whose word he had been instructed. She pointed out, with great force, the evil persons who had ensnared him, and the certainty of his dreadful doom, if he continued to associate with them. And then in a most tender tone, with a heart bursting with love toward him, and eyes streaming with tears, she besought him to flee the tempter; to avoid his former associates; to exercise sincere repentance toward God, and faith in the blessed Saviour, and he would still live to redeem his character; gladden the hearts of his parents; be useful to the world, and finally be saved in heaven.

Under such pleasing and such tender solicitude, the heart of young Grant could hold out no longer. Indeed, this whole evening it had been bleeding profusely, though he succeeded until now to conceal it. But now he could hold out no longer; and freely and frankly he broke out in the following confession : "Mary, you have conquered! Your kindness and your sis

terly solicitude, completely overcome me: I can resist no longer. I am not worthy of your regard. You might very justly have, long ago blotted my name from your recollection. But thanks be to God that you did not do so. If you would have given me up I would have been a ruined man forever. I have now taken my stand, and by the grace of God I will remain here. No more will I visit that cruel family, that have been the authors of my downfall and distress. Mary, my dear sister, pray for me, that my determination may be carried out."

His determination was carried out, and John Grant became a hopeful Christian and member of the Church. Parents' hearts were made glad-and a Sister's influence prevailed!

THE DESERTED PARLOR.

BY PROF. WM. M. NEVIN.

I've closed the shutters tight and fast
And dropped the curtain low,
And on the fire fresh fuel cast,
To make it brighter glow-

To make it brighter glow, Hannah,
And cheer the parlor wide,
As it used to do, in the winter eves,
When you did here preside.

I've placed me on the sofa down

Before the heartsome blaze;

While all the things are standing round
As they were in other days—

As they were in other days, Hannah,
When you were seated by,

And the smile was on your happy cheek
And the love-light in your eye.

While on my hand I lean my head
And gently close mine eyes,
Before me all the dear ones fled
In pleasing fancy rise-

In pleasing fancy rise, Hannah,
And dissipate the gloom,

As they fill again each wonted place
Familiar round the room.

Down seated on your rocking-chair,

Beside your furnished stand,

I see you ply your needle there,
Methinks, with nimble hand-
Methinks, with nimble hand, Hannah,
While still, upon the floor,

Your eye approves our Willie's moves,
Who doth the room explore.

And, Bennie, do not bounce your ball,

For Mattie on her stool

Is going to play her music all

That she has learned at school

That she has learned at school, Hannah,
And we will sit the while

And enter into all their sports,
That will our hearts beguile.

Ah me! the scene that it is real
My fancy will not own;

For still the silence makes me feel

That I am here alone

That I am here alone, Hannah,

And you are laid to rest,

And Willie needs no more your care;

In slumber ever blest.

And our blythe lass that in the hall
With her brother used to play,
Or sport the shadows on the wall-
I've placed them far away—
I've placed them far away, Hannah,
Beneath their loving kin,

Who'll lead them in the narrow path
And keep their souls from sin.

My heart, I feel, is waxing sad,
And the fire is waning low,

And it will not make the parlor glad
With its former, merry glow-

With its former, merry glow, Hannah,
But still my hope is fain

That in your better, brighter home
We all will meet again.

Ir the love of the heart is blighted, it buddeth not again;
If that pleasant song is forgotten, it is to be learnt no more:
Yet often will thought look back and weep over early affection;
Moaning in Ælian strains over the desert of the heart.--TUPPER.

LOVE FOR ZION.

BY REV. E. HEINER, D. D.

"How amiable are thy tabernacles, O Lord of Hosts," is the joyful exclamation of every one who is born from Heaven. That the Christian loves the Church most sincerely and ardently-that he is most warmly attached to all her interests, and closely identified with them, no one can doubt who knows any thing about the great saving change.

We have thought that it might be interesting and profitable to the readers of the "Guardian," to state some of the grounds or reasons of the believer's attachment to the Church. Hear us then, dear reader, in what we have to say about "Love for Zion." There are many reasons why we should love the Church. A few only, we shall find time and space to record.

The believer is attached to the Church, because it is the object of the Saviour's highest love.

There is no object so near and dear to the heart of Christ, as his Church. The Saviour loves all men, indeed, as is proved by the fact that he tasted death for every man. He loves the sinner in his wanderings, and his bowels of compassion are moved towards him, as he cries in melting accents: "Turn ye, turn ye, for why will ye die?" Our Redeemer loves the angels, too, those pure spirits who worship and honor him in his Father's presence in Heaven, and who, when Jesus was an exile from that world of happiness and glory which his own hand had formed, ministered to him in his temptation and agony. We say the Saviour loves the holy angels, but he loves his redeemed people much more.

Not angels round the throne,

Of majesty above,

Are half so much obliged as we,

To our Immanuel's love.

They never sunk so low,

They are not raised so high,

They never knew such depths of woe,
Such heights of majesty.

The Saviour did not join

Their nature to his own

For them he shed no blood divine,

Nor breathed a single groan.