it,
talk of it, try all things by it, sound our experience by it, plead
its promises, commit it to memory, trust in it. It is to be our food;
no other food will feed an immortal soul. It is to be our joy, to
give to us comfort, peace, faith, hope, patience, wisdom, and I will
put the cap-stone on this beautiful arch by--'I commend you to God
and to the Word of His grace, which is able to build you up, and to
give you an inheritance among all them which are sanctified.'"

BUCKWHEAT CAKES.

It was a little house, and a little new family; just two of them, and
just six months since they were made into a family, and set up
housekeeping. As a matter of course everything in the house was new
also. One may prate of antiquities, and the associations clinging
about them that render them beautiful, but after all, every couple
will always look back with delight to the time all their surroundings
were fresh and pretty, yes, even though they were not pretty; there
is a charm in a new pine table, or a bright new tin pan. This house
was a little gem, from the delicately appointed guest chamber to the
cement-lined cellar.

Mr. and Mrs. Philip Thorne sat at their breakfast-table sparkling
with new china and silver, in a dining-room so cheery with pretty
carpet, plants, singing-bird, warmth and sunshine, that the
beggar-girl who peeped in at the window might well wonder "if heaven
were nicer than that." The coffee-urn sent up a fragrant little cloud
as Mrs. Thorne turned it into delicate cups with just the right
quantity of cream and sugar, so that it was just the right colour
that coffee should be. The steak was tender and juicy, the baked
potatoes done to a turn, and yet there was a slight cloud hanging
over that table that did not come from the coffee-urn.

"Joanna does not understand making buckwheat cakes very well, I
imagine," said Mr. Thorne, eyeing the doubtful looking pile she had
just deposited on the table.

"Joanna did not make these, I made them with my own hands," responded
Mrs. Thorne. Said hands were very white and small, but truth to tell,
they were not much more skilled than were Joanna's.

"Then it must be the baking that spoils them," Mr. Thorne said.

"Why, Philip, how do you know that they are spoiled? I'm sure they
look all right," said his wife.

"That is just where you and I do not agree, my dear. They are
white-looking, they ought to be a rich brown."

"Whoever heard of brown buckwheat cakes;