Come now, a story, dear papa, Now find a knee for each; You said, papa, that once you heard Two little sisters preach A better sermon far than you: Jane says that cannot be. We want to know, so tell us now, Before they bring the tea. Come then, my darlings, you must know, Beyond the wild deep sea, In London's streets, these sisters grew In want and misery. Their parents died, and they were left, Poor girls, in sore distress; Ah! dear ones, may you never know An orphan's loneliness! But kindly hearts, which God had touched, Felt for them in their grief; He taught them too the surest way To give such woes relief. Away from London's crowded streets, They bade the sisters come, Within our brave, broad Canada, To find a pleasant home. A pleasant home for each was found, But far apart they lay; And thus apart the sisters dwelt While long months rolled away. Poor little girls! 'twas very sad; They were too young to write; And no one guessed the quiet tears Poor Annie shed at night. Among our Sabbath-scholars soon I learned to watch her face; A quiet sadness on her brow I fancied I could trace. One summer's morning, Sabbath peace Filled all the sunny air, And all within God's house was hushed, To wait the opening prayer; When up the aisle a neighbour came, With hushed but hasty tread; And by the hand with kindly care A little girl he led. A sudden cry ran through the church, A cry of rapture wild; And starting from her seat we saw Our quiet English child. "Sister! my sister!" was the cry That through the silence rung, As round the little stranger's neck Her eager arms she flung. And tears and kisses mingling fast, She pressed on lip and cheek; For silent tears can sometimes tell What words are poor to speak. Then soft o'er cheek, and brow, and hair, Her trembling fingers crept; Then heart to heart, and cheek to cheek, Those loving sisters wept. Nor they alone, for strong men sobbed; Women stood weeping by; And little ones looked up amazed, And asked what made them cry. Oh, broken was the prayer we prayed, Scarce could we raise the hymn; And when God's holy book I read, My eyes with tears were dim. And yet we felt the Saviour there, Right in our midst that day; "Will you not love my little ones?" We almost _heard_ Him say. No need of laboured words that day Long hardened hearts to move; Well had the sisters' meeting preached The lesson, "God is Love." His heart had felt their childish grief, The while they mourned apart; His loving-hand had wrought the plan, To bring them heart to heart. S. R. GELDARD. CHAPTER III. 1870-1871.