a dove, knowing nothing of trouble, of care, of labor, and but little of a sinful world, she gave her young affections to one much older than herself, but who very well knew the value of the treasure.

Friends retire. The sufferer is fatigued, but still there is one duty more. Last words must now be spoken. "The bitterness of death

must now be passed."

Few words but emphatic, and though all tried to listen, the swelling waves of grief rose too high for the feeble utterance; but in the strange tumult of breaking hearts, the voice rose again above all,-"Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive, and let thy widows trust in me.”

The breath grew shorter. The strong man bowed. The spirit went home!

The solemn preparations for a New England funeral, and the condolence of friends softened for a few hours the stunning blow. But after all was over, dust laid to dust, ceremonies finished, and the mourners returned to the

silent dwelling where the echoes of every footfall remind them that death has come in, and death has gone out, taking away their earthly all! presents a scene to be passed over, for no pen has reached the reality. Everywhere they are witnessed in this world of the dying. Everywhere is widowhood. Everywhere or

phans.

The morning dawns upon the sleepless mother, but with it a ray of light penetrated the darkness of her soul.

"Nothing remains to us, but that dying legacy. I must examine it. Let me take down the parchment. How does it read? Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive, and let thy widows trust in me." Is this promise well attested? Will it stand? Is it safe? Oh, yes! for here is the seal of a God. This will is recorded and executed in the court of heaven. I am safe! I am provided for!"

The mother meets the orphans, and they are glad to see the dimpled smile on her face once more. She has found a great inheritance. She

is like one who dreams, but, thank God, not to awake to disappointment.

A few days pass away, she is peaceful, though very sorrowful. She may weep, for Jesus did. She looks upon Willie* her oldest boy, a slender child whose thoughtful mind has given promise of early distinction. A shadow passes. "This child I had hoped to educate; he always said,"

"Mother! I must be a minister; my grandpa was one, and my father was almost one, and I will not be anything else." No! that hope is also quenched. The swelling waves were coming over the soul. She thinks again of the parchment," I will trust it."

The door bell rings. It is only a friend. A few kind words of greeting and the gentle tones thus express themselves:

"Mrs. T., your beloved husband was highly appreciated by his numerous friends. We feel greatly indebted to him for the affectionate care he took of our children, and the excellent principles he inculcated."

The late William B. Tappan.

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"A few of his friends beg your acceptance of this trifle, for your comfort."

The gentleman retired, leaving in the widow's hand a purse containing seven hundred dollars. We will not attempt to portray the grateful tears of joy and thanksgivings that rose from the widow's heart, that God had indeed begun to answer the prayer of faith.

Seven hundred dollars is a great sum where there is nothing, but it will not do everything. Turn it which way you will, it cannot educate Willie. That thought which has been growing twelve years must be abandoned. This was the second grief. Friends now came to advise. They looked at the pale-faced boy. "He is not strong. He must not be put to hard labor. He is very ingenious; just look at those neat little toys he has made with his penknife. Willie must be a mechanic. It is never best to cross the inclination of children."

Still he is young to be sent away from home, and such a tender hearted thing. But necessity is a stern ruler. So Willie must go. "Clock

making is an excellent business, and there is just the place for him in Boston.”

There must be separations in this world, so Willie is put in the stage, and with his great swelling heart and delicate frame, goes forth to do battle with principalities and

powers.

Be comforted, poor mother. It is not in vain that you have sat for hours with that little boy at your side, pouring into his thirsty soul the story of the cross, and the incidents of bible history, from beginning to end. He takes it all with him to Boston, to the workshop; and though his mother's teachings are exchanged for the profane jest, and coarse ribaldry, and vicious examples of his associates, yet the little seed dropped into a good soil. The family is soon dispersed. Kind friends spread the sheltering wing over the orphan daughters, and one little boy remains with the mother.

Years hasten on, as they do now. The children grow up. The daughters are married,