little while. The dream changed to a far different reality, when, at the door of her mother's room, she put her hand into that of Henry Neville, and lifted her eye with a look that said, "Where thou goest will I go," even from all beside!

Tears fell fast in that assembly; though the good old matrons tried to smile, as they passed around the bride, to bless her, and bid her good-bye. A little girl, in a patched but clean frock, pushed forward, with a bouquet of violets and strawberry-blossoms in her hand.

"Here, Miss Nelly-please, Miss Nelly," she cried, half-laughing, half-sobbing, "I picked them on purpose for you!"

Ellen stooped and kissed the little eager face. The child burst into tears, and caught the folds of her dress, as though she would have buried her face there. But a strong-armed woman, mindful of the bride's attire, snatched the child away.

"And for what would ye be whimpering in that style, as if you had any right to Miss Ellen ?""

"She was always good to me, and she's my Sundayschool teacher," pleaded the little girl, in a subdued undertone.

Agnes drew her to her side, and silently comforted

her.

"Step aside Father Herrick is here!" said one, just then.

The crowd about the bridal pair opened, to admit a white-haired, half-blind old man, who came leaning on the arm of his rosy grand-daughter. Father Herrick was a superannuated deacon, whose good words and

works had won for him a place in every heart of that assembly.

"They told me she was going," he murmured to himself; "they say 'tis her wedding. I want to see my little girl again-bless her!"

Ellen sprang forward, and laid both her white trembling hands in the large hand of the good old man. He drew her near his failing eyes; and looked searchingly into her young, soul-lit countenance.

"I can just see you, darling; and they tell me I shall never see you again! Well, well, if we go in God's way we shall all get to Heaven, and it's all light there!" He raised his hand over her head, and added, solemnly, "The blessing of blessings be upon thee, my child. Amen!"

"Amen!" echoed the voice of Henry Neville. And Ellen looked up with the look of an angel.

So she went from us! Oh! the last moment of that parting hour has burnt itself into my being for ever! Could the human heart endure the agony of parting like that, realized to be indeed the last-lighted by no ray of hope for eternity! Would not reason reel under the pressure?

It was hard to bear; but I have no words to tell of its bitterness. She went to her missionary life, and we learned at last to live without her, though it was many a month before the little ones could forget to call on "Sister Ellen" in any impulse of joy, grief, or childish want. Then the start and the sigh, "Oh, dear, she's gone-sister is gone!" And fresh tears would flow.

Gone, but not lost; for that First Marriage in the

family opened to us a fountain of happiness, pure as the spring of self-sacrifice could make it. Our household darling has linked us to a world of needy and perishing spirits a world that asks for the energy and the aid of those who go from us, and those who remain in the dear country of their birth. God bless her and her charge! Dear sister Ellen! there may be many another breach in the family-we may all be scattered to the four winds of heaven-but no change can come over us like that which marked the FIRST MARRIAGE.

ONLY A FEW WORDS.

MR. JAMES WINKLEMAN shut the door with a jar, as he left the house, and moved down the street, in the direction of his office, with a quick, firm step, and the air of a man slightly disturbed in mind.

"Things are getting better fast," said he, with a touch of irony in his voice, as he almost flung himself into his leather-cushioned chair. "It's rather hard when a man has to pick his words in his own house, as carefully as if he were picking diamonds, and tread as softly as if he was stepping on eggs. I don't like it. Mary gets weaker and more foolish every day, and puts a breadth of meaning on my words that I never intended them to have. I've not been used to this conning over of sentences and picking out of all doubtful expressions ere venturing to speak, and I'm too old to begin now. Mary

took me for what I am, and she must make the most of her bargain. I'm past the age for learning new tricks."

With these and many other justifying sentences, did Mr. Winkleman seek to obtain a feeling of self-approval. But, for all this, he could not shut out the image of a tearful face, nor get rid of an annoying conviction that he had acted thoughtlessly, to say the least of it, in speaking to his wife as he had done.

But what was all this trouble about? Clouds were in the sky that bent over the home of Mr. Winkleman, and it is plain that Mr. Winkleman himself had his own share in the work of producing these clouds. Only a few unguarded words had been spoken. Only words! And was that all?

Words are little things, but they sometimes strike hard. We wield them so easily that we are apt to forget their hidden power. Fitly spoken, they fall like the sunshine, the dew, and the fertilizing rain; but, when unfitly, like the frost, the hail, and the desolating tempest. Some men speak as they feel or think, without calculating the force of what they say; and then seem very much surprised if any one is hurt or offended. To this class belonged Mr. Winkleman. His wife was a loving, sincere woman, quick to feel. were indeed things. They never fell upon her ears as idle sounds. How often was her poor heart bruised by them!

Words, to her,

On this particular morning, Mrs. Winkleman, whose health was feeble, found herself in a weak, nervous state. It was only by an effort that she could rise above the morbid irritability that afflicted her. Earnestly did she

strive to repress the disturbed beatings of her heart, but she strove in vain. And it seemed to her, as it often does in such cases, that everything went wrong. The children were fretful, the cook dilatory and cross, and Mr. Winkleman impatient, because sundry little matters pertaining to his wardrobe were not just to his mind.

"Eight o'clock, and no breakfast yet," said Mr. Winkleman, as he drew out his watch, on completing his own toilet. Mrs. Winkleman was in the act of dressing the last of five children, all of whom had passed under her hands. Each had been captious, cross, or unruly, sorely trying the mother's patience. Twice had she been in the kitchen, to see how breakfast was progressing, and to enjoin the careful preparation of a favourite dish with which she had purposed to surprise her husband.

"It will be ready in a few minutes," said Mrs. Winkleman. "The fire hasn't burned freely this morning.

"If it isn't one thing, it is another," growled the husband. "I'm getting tired of this irregularity. There'd soon be no breakfast to get, if I were always behind time in business matters."

Mrs. Winkleman bent lower over the child she was dressing, to conceal the expression of her face. What a sharp pain now throbbed through her temples! Mr. Winkleman commenced walking the floor impatiently, little imagining that every jarring footfall was like a blow on the sensitive, aching brain of his wife.

"Too bad! too bad!" he had just ejaculated when the bell rung.

"At last!" he muttered, and strode towards the breakfast-room. The children followed in considerable