“What is it? Bring it to me.” From a shelf near by, the attendant took down a small volume which had been scorched, but not otherwise injured, by the flames. He opened it. It proved to be the New Testament in the original tongue. Perhaps out of his whole library this was the book which he had least studied. Now, however, that it was all that was left him, he passed hours in its perusal. Gradually, as he read, a light broke in upon him; and he began to perceive, at first by glimpses, but after a while with all the clearness of light, that his life had been a mistake, and that learning was not, as he had fancied, the great end of existence. He perceived that in its attainment he had neglected what were of infinitely more importance,—his duties to God and his fellow-men. With a feeling of humiliation, he could not but confess that his life had been in vain. One day, as he was rapidly approaching recovery, he turned to his nurse, and said, abruptly,— “Where have I met you before? Your face looks familiar.” “On the day of the fire,” was the reply, “you met me and my little one. We were destitute, and implored charity.” “Which I denied. Yet you nurse me with all the devotedness of one who is serving a benefactor. How is this?” “I am only doing my duty. But it is not to me you are indebted: it is to the good farmer whose hospitality we both alike share.” “Is it possible?” said Gottfried, with humiliation. “It is, then, he over whom I triumphed in fancied superiority. With all the learning which I have gathered from books, I feel, that, in the true wisdom of life, I am vastly inferior to you both.” On his recovery, Gottfried again applied himself to his studies; but henceforth he never sought to elevate mere worldly knowledge above “that wisdom which passeth all understanding.” INNOCENCE. Contributed by a friend. The blue sky was her canopy; The flower-gemmed turf, her shrine; Her incense, deep and fervent love, Pure from the heart’s rich mine. Her brow was fair, her eyes were mild, Her sunny smile was bright: No discontent its shadow threw Across her spirit’s light. Angels their constant vigil kept, And guarded her from harm; Breathing around her, while she slept, A spirit-soothing charm. But she hath left this guilt-stained earth: No more her smiles may cheer; No more her gentle voice of mirth May breathe its music here. Her haunts are desecrated now, Or desolate and lone; And Psyche’s palace, where she dwelt, Has ceased to be her home. PETER PLUNKETT’S ADVENTURE.