glad to say, was "a mother's gift," the pocket Bible. Charles felt that he could not go without that; and perhaps he felt that the discovery that he had taken it might serve somewhat to assuage a mother's sorrow.

Before morning, the young sailors were a long way to wards the sea-port whence they expected to sail, and a couple of days brought them quite there. The ship, it so happened, was ready, and Charles having been ac cepted on the recommendation of Thornton, took up his line of duty before the mast. Shortly after the ship weighed anchor, and stretched forth on a far distant voyage.

I must leave my readers to imagine, if they are able, the surprise and even consternation of Mrs. Grant and his sister Alice, the morning following Charles's departure, at not finding him in the house, nor about the premises. What could it mean?-what errand could have called him away?-at what hour did he leave?-what accident could have befallen him?

Search was made for him by the increasingly anxious and terrified mother and sister for an hour or more, before they ventured to make known their solicitude to their neighbours. My own residence was not far distant; and before I had finished my breakfast, a messenger in haste made known the truly distressing situation of Mrs. Grant and Alice. I hastened to the house,-other friends at no distant hour were there, inquiries were instituted,-messengers were despatched around the town, but not the slightest tidings could be obtained, and even conjecture was baffled. At length, however, Mrs. Grant made the discovery that his better suit was gone, and there was a transient gleam of joy on her face as she announced that his pocket Bible was also not in his chest. Some days passed, long days, and long and gloomy nights, before any satisfactory intelligence was received, and then the amount of that intelligence was in a short but affectionate letter from Charles himself, just then on the eve of sailing for the Pacific Ocean. It was thus

"MY DEAR MOTHER,-Can you, will you, forgive me for the step I have taken without your knowledge or

consent? My heart has smote me every hour since I left you. I am at and on board the ship

which sails in an hour for the Pacific Ocean. Fondest, best of mothers, do not grieve, I will one day return to bless and comfort you and my dear Alice. I must do something for you and her. Kiss her for me. Mother, I can write no more, only that I hope I shall have your prayers. have got my pocket Bible, and shall keep it next my heart. Farewell.-Your affectionate Son.

I

"P.S. I have somewhere read, what I am sure will prove true in my own case

"Where'er I rove-whatever realms I see,

My heart, untravell'd, fondly clings to thee."

By some means the letter did not reach the post-office as soon as it should have done, and the uncertainty bore heavily on the heart of mother and sister. The postmaster, on its arrival, kindly sent it to me, and hoping that it contained tidings of the lost child, I ventured to break the seal. The truth-sorrowful as it was-was a great relief, and was felt to be so by Mrs. Grant and Alice. Yet, for a season-and who can marvel?-their hearts were filled with a sadness which scarcely admitted of alleviation; it was a dark and mysterious providence ; and when friends called in, as they often did, to mingle their tears with the weeping, and to administer consolation, the most they could do was to weep, and to say, "His ways are in the sea, and His judgments past finding

out."

But time does something, faith does more. "Prayer makes the darkest cloud withdraw." So it did for them. They did not, indeed, recover their wonted cheerfulness, but they were calm and subdued. No murmur escaped the mother's lips, and even Alice seemed to have imbibed the spirit of a holy resignation, "Father, thy will be done."

But there were aays of keen and bitter anguish, and in those nights when the storm swept its angry blast across their humble dwelling, and rocked their bed, it was im

possible for a mother's heart not to tremble for her sailor boy, far off upon the stormy ocean, and perhaps suffering the perils of the billowy tempest. But even at such times she was able to commit herself and her wandering child to the care and grace of a covenant-keeping God, uttering the language of holy confidence. His faithfulness is as the everlasting mountains. "Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him."

Four years elapsed, and nothing was heard of Charles Grant. Some time during the second year of his absence, a rumour reached us, that a ship, supposed to be the which sailed from and on board of which Charles was supposed to be, was burned at sea, and that but two or three only were saved, and among them was a young man named Grant. But the rumour, though not contradicted, was not confirmed, and another period of uncertainty and anxiety, fell to the lot of the long-stricken, and heart-saddened mother and sister of the absent boy.

At length the friends of Mrs. Grant perceived a visible change in her health. The indications of that too fatal malady, consumption, were too apparent to be mistaken.

Its approach was, indeed, slow and insidious, and for a time was kept at bay by the assiduous attention of our village physician; but medical prescription at length lost its power, and she became at first confined to the house, then to her room, and finally to her bed.

I often visited her, as did other friends. Her room was no longer the abode of gloom and sorrow. She had for some months been making rapid progress in resignation to the will of her heavenly Father: and though her feeble tabernacle was shaken, and was likely to be dissolved, through years of anxiety and affliction, yet her faith seemed to acquire more and more strength, and to fasten with a firmer hold upon the divine promises.

One day, as I sat conversing with her, she alluded to the faithfulness of God, and expressed her unwavering confidence in Him. She said it had been her desire to acquiesce in the divine will, and she hoped that she should be able to do sc,-whatever it might be, in relation

to herself or her absent son. "But," continued she, "I have prayed long and fervently that I may once more see him,―see him, too, a true penitent and child of God,and I cannot relinquish the belief that God will hear and

answer.

I was about to say something which might tend to soothe her, in case her hopes were not realised, as I must confess I saw little present reason to expect they would be, when she stopped me, and observed, "You may think me presumptuous, but my faith must enjoy its hold on the divine promises. Has not God said, 'Call upon me in the day of trouble, and I will answer thee, and thou shalt glorify me.' I have called, yes, I have called by day and night, and God has seemed to help me. Has he excited such strong, such intense emotions for nothing? Has he enabled me to wrestle so with him, only to be disappointed? I am aware that probabilities are all against me. I must soon fail; this heart will soon cease beating, and the narrow house be my resting-place, but I still have confidence in the faithfulness of my heavenly Father. What though I see no immediate prospect of the return of my poor boy, I believe I shall yet press that poor child to my bosom, returned not only to his mother, but to his God. Years since, I wrote in a pocket Bible I gave him 'His loving-kindness changes not;' and do you think it will fail now?"

I confess I admired the steady faith of the mothera faith strong in the Lord and in the power of his might; and yet it seemed scarcely possible that her hopes should be realised. At length my faith faltered, for it was apparent that her hour of departure was not far distant.

That night, two or three female friends, fearful of her failure before morning, offered to stay with the mother of Alice. This the latter cheerfully assented to, though she had decided not to leave her mother. The necessary arrangements for the night were made, and at an early hour all was silent in and around the humble cottage.

It was a glorious night abroad-clear, soft, mild — just such a night as a saint might well choose in which to take

his departure and soar to the temple above. The poet must have had some such night in vision when he penned those beautiful lines

"The moon awakes, and from her maiden face
Shedding her cloudy locks, looks meekly forth,
And, with her virgin stars, walks in the heav'ns-
Walks nightly there, conversing as she walks,

Of purity, and holiness, and God."

It was just such a night, and Alice had risen from her seat; and to hide her emotions, as her dear parent breathed more heavily, had gone to the window, the curtain of which she threw aside, and was standing leaning her arm on the sash. In the distance, just beyond the gate, she descried, as she thought, the figure of a man who seemed to be approaching. For a moment, she started back, but again looked, and his hand was on the latch. The gate was opened with great caution, and the stranger approached slowly towards the house. Presently a gentle knock was heard at the kitchen door. It was impossible for Alice to summon courage to attend to the stranger herself: but she whispered to the nurse, who, upon unlocking the door, inquired the reason for so late and unseasonable an intrusion.

"Does Mrs. Grant still reside here ?" inquired the stranger, in a kind but earnest tone.

"She does," replied the nurse; "but she is dangerously ill, and we fear she cannot live many hours-you cannot see her."

"O God have mercy!" exclaimed the stranger; and so audibly were the words pronounced that the sound fell on the ears of Alice, and her heart beat with strong and distressing emotions. "I must see her," continued the stranger; "do not deny me, madam,—quick, quick!” and he gently pressed open the door, still held by the surprised and even terrified nurse.

Alice listened to the sounds without being able to decide their import; but at length fearing that her mother might be disturbed, she stole softly out of the room for the purpose of ascertaining what the stranger wished.

"Alice-Miss Alice," said the nurse, as she approached.