and James, side by side, bent over the dying one,
and his mother sat afar off, with her face hid in
her apron, "that she might not see the death of the
child." The aged minister was there, and the
Bible lay open before him. The father walked to
the side of the bed. He stood still, and gazed on
the face now brightening with "life and immortal-
ity." The son lifted up his eyes: he saw his fa-
ther, smiled, and put out his hand.
"I am glad
you are come," said he. Oh, George, to the pity,

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don't! don't smile on me so! I know what is coming; I have tried and tried, and I can't, I can't have it so;" and his frame shook, and he sobbed audibly. The room was still as death; there was none that seemed able to comfort him. At last the son repeated, in a sweet but interrupted voice, those words of man's best Friend: "Let not your heart be troubled; in my Father's house are many mansions."

"Yes, but I can't help being troubled; I suppose the Lord's will must be done, but it'll kill me.

"Oh, father, don't, don't break my heart," said the son, much agitated. "I shall see you again in heaven, and you shall see me again; and then 'your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you.""

"I never shall get to now," said the old man.

heaven, if I feel as I do
"I cannot have it so."

1

66]

The mild face of the sufferer was overcast. wish he saw all that I do," said he, in a low voice; then looking towards the minister, he articulated, "Pray for us."

They knelt in prayer. It was soothing, as real prayer always must be; and when they rose, every one seemed more calm. But the sufferer was exhausted; his countenance changed; he looked on his friends; there was a faint whisper, "Peace I leave with you," and he was in heaven.

We need not dwell on what followed. The seed aown by the righteous often blossoms over their grave; and so was it with this good man: the words of peace which he spake unto his friends while he was yet with them, came into remem. brance after he was gone; and though he was laid in the grave with many tears, yet it was with softened and submissive hearts.

"The Lord bless him!" said Uncle Tim, as he and James were standing, last of all, over the grave. "I believe my heart is gone to heaven with him; and I think the Lord really did know what was best, after all.”

Our friend James seemed now to become the support of the family, and the bereaved old man unconsciously began to transfer to him the affections that had been left vacant.

“James,” said he to him one day, "I suppose

you know that you are about the same to me as a

son.

"I hope so," said James, kindly.

"Well, well, you'll go to college next week, and none o' y'r keepin' school to get along. I've got enough to bring you safe, out-that is, if you'll be car'ful and stiddy."

James knew the heart too well to refuse a favour in which the poor old man's mind was com. forting itself; he had the self-command to abstain from any extraordinary expressions of gratitude, but took it kindly, as a matter of course.

"Dear Grace," said he to her, the last evening before he left home, "I am changed; we both are altered since we first knew each other; and now I am going to be gone a long time, but I am sure-'

He stopped to arrange his thoughts.

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Yes, you may be sure of all those things that you wish to say, and cannot," said Grace.

"Thank you," said James; then, looking thoughtfully, he added,

"God help me. I believe I have mind enough

to be what I mean to; but whatever I am or have shall be given to God and my fellow-men; and then, Grace, your brother in heaven will rejoice

over me.

"I believe he does now," said Grace.

"God

bless you, James; I don't know what would have become of us if you had not been here."

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Yes, you will live to be like him, and to do even more good," she added, her face brightening as she spoke, till James thought she really must be right.

*

*

*

*

*

It was five years after this that James was spoken of as an eloquent and successful minister in the State of C-, and was settled in one of its most influential villages. Late one autumn evening, a tall, bony, hard-favoured man was observed making his way into the outskirts of the place.

"Halloa, there!" he called to a man over the other side of a fence; "what town is this 'ere?" "It's Farmington, sir."

"Well, I want to know if you know anything of a boy of mine that lives here ?”

"A boy of yours-who?"

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Why, I've got a boy here, that's livin' on the town, and I thought I'd jest look him up."

"I don't know any boy that is living on the town; what's his name?"

"Why," said the old man, pushing his hat off from his forehead, "I believe they call him James Benton."

"James Benton! why, that is our minister's name."

"Oh, wal, I believe he is the minister, come to think ou't. He's a boy o' mine, though.

does he live ?"

Where

"In that white house that you see set back from the road there, with all those trees round it."

At this instant a tall, manly-looking person ap. proached from behind. Have we not seen that face before? It is a touch graver than of old, and its lines have a more thoughtful significance; but all the vivacity of James Benton sparkles in that quick smile as his eye falls on the old man.

"I thought you could not keep away from us long," said he, with the prompt cheerfulness of his boyhood, and laying hold of both of Uncle Tim's hard hands.

They approached the gate; a bright face glances past the window, and in a moment Grace is at the door.

"Father! dear father!"

"You'd better make believe be so glad," said Uncle Tim, his eyes glistening as he spoke.

"Come, come, father, I have authority in these days," said Grace, drawing him towards the house, "so no disrespectful speeches; away with your hat and coat, and sit down in this great chair."

"So, ho! Miss Grace," said Uncle Tim, "you are at your old tricks, ordering round as usual, Well, if I must, I must ;" so down he sat.