"There, you saw that water rise to the top of the cup, did you?"

"Yes, I did."

"Very well, what caused it to do so?"

15. "Why; I know well enough, if I could only think: why, it is because the iron is the heavier, and as it comes all around the water so it can't get away sideways, it is forced up."

"That is right; and now I want you to tell what makes that smoke rise up the chimney."

16. "Why-I guess," replied the boy, hesitating, “I guess I guess I don't know."

"Did you ever get upon a chair to look on some high shelf, so that your head was brought near the ceiling of a heated room, in winter? and did you notice any difference between the air up there and the air near the floor?"

17. "Yes, I remember I have, and found the air up there as warm as mustard; and when I got down, and bent my head near the floor to pick up something, I found it as cold as could be."

"That is ever the case; but I wish you to tell me how the cold air always happens to settle down to the lower part of the room, while the warm air, somehow, at the same time, gets above."

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18. "Why, why, heavy things settle down, and the cold air-yes, yes, that's it, I am sure the cold air is heavier, and so settles down, and crowds up the warm air." Very good. You then understand that cold air is heavier than the heated air, just as that iron is heavier than the water; so now we will go back to the main question-what makes the smoke go upward?"

19. "Oh! I see now as plain as day; the cold air settles down all round, like the iron box, and drives up the

hot air as fast as the fire heats it, in the middle, like the water; and so the hot air carries the smoke along up with it, just as feathers and things in a whirlwind. Well! I have found out what makes smoke go up-isn't it curious?" 20. "Done like a philosopher!" cried Bunker. "The thing is settled. I will grant that you are a teacher among a thousand. You can not only think yourself, but can teach others to think; so you may call the position yours as quick as you please." DANIEL PIERCE THOMPSON.

LESSON LII.

1. re coiled'; v. drew back in alarm.

1. ǎp' på rĭ' tion; n. a ghost.

2. sôr' çer ess; n. a woman who is supposed to deal with evil spirits.

6. rǎl' lied; v. ridiculed; attacked with jesting language, either in good humor or with slight contempt.

7. elūè; n. anything serving to guide.

2. spěe' u lā' tion; n. power 13. věr i fied; v. proved to be of sight.

true.

A Christian Martyr. Part I.

This Lesson is an extract from Cardinal Wiseman's great story "Fabiola." The scene is at the time when a body of Roman soldiers, led by Torquatus, an apostate, and Corvinus, the son of the prefect Tertullus, are attempting to carry out a plot to capture the Christians who are attending divine worship in the Catacombs. Having been warned, however, the Christians succeed in making their escape. Torquatus suddenly falls down a neglected staircase in the Catacombs, and thus mysteriously disappears from his companions. Cæcilia, a blind girl, remains after the other Christians have escaped, to guide any of the faithful who may have been left behind.

1. Before these foiled hounds with drooping heads had reached the entrance, they recoiled before the sight of a singular apparition. At first they thought they had caught

a glimpse of daylight; but they soon perceived it was the glimmering of a lamp. This was held steadily by an upright, immovable figure, which thus received its light upon itself. It was clothed in a dark dress, so as to resemble one of those bronze statues which have the head and extremities of white marble, and startle one when first seen, so like are they to living forms.

2. "Who can it be? What is it?" the men whispered to one another.

"A sorceress," replied one.

"The genius loci," observed another.

"A spirit," suggested a third.

Still, as they approached stealthily toward it, it did not appear conscious of their presence: "there was no speculation in its eyes"; it remained unmoved and unscared. At length, two got sufficiently near to seize the figure by its arms.

3. "Who are you?" asked Corvinus, in a rage.

"A Christian," answered Cæcilia, with her usual cheerful gentleness.

"Bring her along," he commanded; "some one at least shall pay for our disappointment."

4. Cæcilia, already forewarned, had approached the cemetery by a different but neighboring entrance. No sooner had she descended than she snuffed the strong odor of the torches. "This is none of our incense, I know," she said to herself; "the enemy is already within." She hastened therefore to the place of assembly and delivered Sebastian's note; adding also what she had observed. It warned them to disperse and seek the shelter of the inner and lower galleries; and begged of the Pontiff not to leave till he should send for him, as his person was particularly sought for.

5. Pancratius urged the blind messenger to save herself too. "No," she replied, "my office is to watch the door, and guide the faithful safe."

"But the enemy may seize you."

"No matter," she answered, laughing; " my being taken may save much worthier lives. Give me a lamp, Pancratius."

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Why, you cannot see by it," observed he, smiling. "True, but others can."

They may be your enemies."

"Even so,” she answered, "I do not wish to be taken in the dark. If my Bridegroom come to me in the night of this cemetery, must He not find me with my lamp trimmed?"

Off she started, reached her post, and hearing no noise except that of quiet footsteps, she thought they were those of friends, and held up her lamp to guide them.

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6. When the party came forth with their only captive, Fulvius was perfectly furious. It was worse than a total failure: it was ridiculous—a poor mouse come out of the bowels of the earth. He rallied Corvinus till the wretch winced and foamed; then suddenly he asked, " And where is Torquatus?" He heard the account of his sudden disappearance, told in as many ways as the Dacian guard's adventure; but it annoyed him greatly. He had no doubt whatever, in his own mind, that he had been duped by his supposed victim, who had escaped into the unsearchable mazes of the cemetery. If so, this captive would know, and he determined to question her. He stood before her, therefore, put on his most searching and awful look, and said to her sternly, "Look at me, woman, and tell me the truth."

7. "I must tell you the truth without looking at you,

sir," answered the poor girl, with her cheerfullest smile and softest voice; "do you not see that I am blind?"

"Blind!" all exclaimed at once, as they crowded to look at her. But over the features of Fulvius there passed the slightest possible emotion, just as much as the wave that runs, pursued by a playful breeze, over the ripe meadow. A knowledge had flashed into his mind, a clue had fallen into his hand.

8. "It will be ridiculous," he said, "for twenty soldiers to march through the city guarding a blind girl. Return to your quarters, and I will see you are well rewarded. You, Corvinus, take my horse, and go before to your father, and tell him all; I will follow in a carriage with the captive."

"No treachery, Fulvius," he said, vexed and mortified. "Mind you bring her. The day must not pass without a sacrifice."

"Do not fear," was the reply.

9. Fulvius, indeed, was pondering whether, having lost one spy, he should not try to make another. But the placid gentleness of the poor beggar perplexed him more than the boisterous zeal of the gamester, and her sightless orbs defied him more than the restless roll of the toper's. Still, the first thought that had struck him he could yet pursue. When alone in a carriage with her, he assumed a soothing tone, and addressed her. He knew she had not overheard the last dialogue.

10. "My poor girl," he said, "how long have you been blind?"

"All my life," she replied.

"What is your history? Whence do you come ? "

"I have no history. My parents were poor, and brought me to Rome when I was four years old, as they