Guy Elersley, had long ago abandoned the noctivagent tendencies, that had only saddened and distracted his life, but to-night, as the clock struck nine, he deliberately closed the book he had been reading, with a heavv sigh, lit a cigar, and getting himself into his furs, he strolled noiselessly out, the great doorway of the quiet hotel and commenced an onward journey at a brisk pace. He heeded neither the flood of subdued light, that hung like a veil of hallowed glory over the earth, on this bright Christmas Eve, nor the busy pedestrians, who hurried to and fro, with well-filled baskets for to-morrow's celebrations. He did heed an odd beggar-child who stopped, to hold towards him a Christmas number of the "_Free Press_," for a penny, or who still more appealingly extended a little bare frozen hand for charity. He had not far to go on this nights' ramble, but he walked thoughtfully along, like one, on a serious errand, the old familiar sights of other days distracted him somewhat, his eyes wandered mechanically over the walls of the little church of St. Alban, the martyr, whose angular spire, stood prominently out in the clear moonlight. A corner away from this, and the glittering roof of St Joseph's Church attracted his gaze, he was passing close by it now, and a strange instinct directed his steps towards it; he pushed open the yielding door, and stood in the streaming moonlight, among vacant pews, and holy stillness. The Christmas decorations were just discernible by the flickering light of the sanctuary lamp, and from the windows and altars of the quiet little church, the faces of hallowed saints looked down in their venerable simplicity, making the moonlight that made visible their holy smiles, sanctified and imposing. Guy Elersley had many qualities, both good and evil, but he was as innocent of church- going, as he was of murder; of that, at least no one had ever yet accused him, nevertheless there was a dormant religious enthusiasm in that young breast, which needed but the touch of the right hand on the yielding chords of a full heart, to call forth the melodious strains of an impromptu chant of praise from the creature to his Creator. The soul of our youth of to-day, resembles in many cases a musical instrument, which stands in its grandeur and magnificence, unopened and untouched, the cobwebs of neglect grow over the elegant framework, the dust of ages cloud its wonderful beauty, because there are no hands to touch its magic strings, and call forth the hidden melody it contains, some day, the silence is broken by hazard, a note has been touched, which repeats and echoes its sweet melancholy, with such an eager pathos, that one regrets the many years of wasted ecstacies, which time has consumed, and which might have brightened a lonely life, if the secret had but been known. To-night, for the first time in his life, the chords of Elersley's heart, almost rusted, from their wearisome rest gave out such