s don't satisfy a great while, after
all,--when I came across some boys who were making volcanoes.
Volcanoes, you know, are burning mountains. They took some powder, wet
it, worked it with their fingers into miniature hills, then put one
end of a strip of match-paper in the top of each, and lighted the
other end of the paper; this would burn slowly down into the top of
the powder-hill; that would take fire and send up showers of sparks
for quite a while, as it gradually consumed. This amusement fascinated
me. So, buying a quarter of a pound of powder, I made a hill like
those I had seen, and lighted the match-paper as I saw them light
theirs; but when it had burnt all away, the hill did not burn.
Thinking, therefore, I had put too much water in mine, I stooped down
and poured on from the paper some dry powder. In an instant it ignited
from a smouldering spark, exploding also the contents of the paper
which I held in my hand. My face was dreadfully burned, and became as
black as a negro's."

"So did mine," said Tom; "but it is coming off nicely now."

"So I see," returned the minister, laughing; "and I dare say you
worried almost as much about the _black_ as you did about the
_burn_."

"Tom feared it would never come off," said the mother.

"Ah, that's just the way I felt. But I have found out since that
there's something worse than a black face."

"What's that?" asked Tom.

"A black heart!" replied the minister.

"A black heart!" repeated Tom, in doubt of his meaning.

"Yes, my lad. What I mean is a heart blackened by sin. Ah, if folks
worried more about _that_, and less about their looks, how much more
sensible it would be!" Then, after a pause, he said,--

"But there is one thing for which we should be very grateful; and that
is, that as there are remedies for us when we injure the body, and
disfigure it,--as we did our faces, my son,--that can heal the injury,
and bring the skin out all fresh and fair, so there is a great
Physician, who can heal the hurt which sin has done our souls, and
cause them to be pure and white forever. Isn't that a glorious
thought?"

"Yes," whispered Tom, weeping.

"Yes," ejaculated the mother, with deep emotion.

"But," said the minister, "how many of these little folks"--for most
of the children had ventured in, and stood listening spell-bound to
his recital--"will come to Sunday school next Sunday?" And getting a
promise that as many of them would be there as possible, he