While George Nicol stood gazing on the scene the laborer kept peeping at him from time to time, but never thought of speaking. Presently George Nicol turned to him, and asked in good English, what a certain building was which he saw in the distance. The laborer answered civilly that it was St. Paul's Church; and then replied to several other questions, till he had pointed out the chief buildings of the great city, which could be seen from the hill on which they were standing. When this was done, after a short pause the African said: "Well, my friend, you have here a very large and magnificent city; but, after all, it is not to be compared to the city of God, the heavenly Jerusalem, which I hope you and I will both see one day." If the honest laborer was surprised before, his astonishment was much greater now. "Why," said he, "do you know anything about such things?" "Yes, thank God," replied the African, "I am happy to say I do. It was not always so. I was once in darkness, and knew nothing of the true God; but good missionaries from England came, and taught me about Jesus Christ; and now I live in hope of one day seeing Him in that beautiful city, the heavenly Jerusalem, where I shall dwell with Him forever." By this time the good Englishman had thrown down the hammer with which he had been breaking stones. He came across the road, and grasping Nicol's hand exclaimed, "Why, then, you are one of them that I have been praying for these twenty years. I never put a penny into the missionary box without saying, 'God bless the colored man.'" It rejoiced the heart of the good African not a little to find in the humble stone-breaker a friend who had taken such a deep interest in the people of Africa. And if his pleasure was so great, the laborer's was not less, for he saw in George Nicol an answer to his prayers, and a sure proof that his missionary money had not been spent in vain. He felt the truth of the words, "Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days." HE NEVER TOLD A LIE. Mungo Park, in the account of his African travels, relates that a negro youth was killed by a shot from a party of Moors. His mother walked before the corpse, as it was carried home, frantic with grief, clapping her hands, and declaring her son's good qualities. "He never told a lie," cried the bereaved mother; "he never told a lie; no, never." DADDY DAVY. One winter evening, when a little orphan in my seventh year, I climbed upon my grandfather's knee, and begged that he would "tell me a story." The candles were not yet lighted in the parlor, but the glowing fire sent forth its red blaze, and its cheering heat seemed more grateful from a fall of snow, which was rapidly collecting in piles of fleecy whiteness on the lawn.