In a large hospital a young girl has wasted away day by day with consumption. Visiting ladies supplied her with books, delicacies, ect. She always had a pleasant "thank you" for these kindnesses, but seemed unusually reserved as regards her religious feeling. One morning I cut some of my lovely rose buds, and tied them with a few sprigs of mignonette, and wishing that the poor child might really believe a loving Heavenly Father had sent them, I wrote on a card and fastened it on the stems, "Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." I went to her bed, but her face was hidden, and her slight form convulsed with sobs. In her hand she held a tract, and my eyes glanced at these words: "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might, for there is no work nor device in the grave whither thou art hastening ;" and underneath that, "Ye serpents ! how can ye escape the damnation of hell ?" The lady that gave her the tract was probably a Christian but a stern and cruel one. "Look here, dear child," said I. She took the lovely flowers, read the comforting text, laid her cheek against them and murmured: "God is good, He loves me; I am not afraid." The flower mission is a beautiful charity.

Let us carry these lovely blossoms to the sick, the sorrowful and the erring instead of these dreadful tracts. The flowers will always teach a heavenly lesson. The tracts may do real harm and cause positive suffering. - Sister Gracious.