meeting in this village." The tears fell fast, while she replied, "I have no cloak to wear. I have the materials, but no one will make it for me." "Bring your cloak to me, M.," said Mrs. B., "I will make it this week."

Saturday night the cloak went home, and with it, a straw bonnet which had done good service, and was ready for more. Every Sabbath, M. was noticed in a distant part of the church, near the door, and very soon the two little girls took their places in the Sabbathschool. Every week, M. was at the parsonage. No one feared her. She went down cellar when necessary. Nothing was missing. Her face, though very sad, was gradually gathering the expression of conscious integrity.

At length Mrs. B. ventured to draw near the citadel of the soul, if possible, to discover its real condition.

"M.," said she tenderly one day, "do you know that you have a soul that cannot die, nor can it live with God, unless it is renewed and washed in the blood of Jesus?"

The bruised reed bent low- the head sank down, and M. burst into a torrent of tears. "Oh, Mrs. B., indeed I do, I am so distressed I can hardly live. I have not had a minute's peace since I came into this house."

"Why so, M.?"

"The first time your husband prayed for me, I thought how can it be, that I never prayed for myself, when he feels so much for me?"

M. was quickly told, "that there was room enough for her in the great redemption, a place for her in her Father's mansions." She listened eagerly to the glad tidings of great joy for all people, not excepting even her. M. believed the good news; she accepted, and it was hoped she was at peace with God.

Time went on, work came in. The little brown house was made comfortable. A nice rocking-chair and soft mat were sent in for the old mother. The children went to school. The once comfortless abode was no longer a dark spot in the lovely village, but a pleasant little channel for kindly words, benevolent im

pulses, and deeds of love to flow through, springing out from the beautiful edifices and comfortable dwellings around the old church.

But M's journey was to be a short one. Probation was nearly ended when the Providence of God led her under the shadow of the old church. A sudden fever attacked her in mid summer, and with her dying eye resting upon the Saviour of sinners, she left the world.

Let us thank God for every opportunity to lighten the weight of sorrow, or lead the wanderer back to the fold.

CHAPTER XXIII.

FORTY YEARS AGO.

Ir was a dry, sultry day, that a walk through a dusty lane brought me to a rickety old house, standing alone in the suburbs of a New England city. Windows broken, stuffed rags, gates unhinged, and other tokens of poverty and neglect, told the story. A woman of sad countenance, but of neat and agreeable aspect, appeared at the door.

In few words, I told my errand; it was to gather up children for the Sabbath school.

She hesitated, but invited me in. A group of little ones were around her, in the midst of which, I noticed one of singular beauty. She is now in the grave, and I may speak of her countenance, as the most lovely specimen of

childhood innocence; the mild, dark eyes shaded by long curling lashes, would have attracted the notice of any one.

"Would you like to go to the Sabbath school, my little girl?" I said.

Oh, yes, ma'am, with all my heart, but I fear I cannot-" (a slight shade of sadness passing over the sweet features).

"Do

you think I can go, mother?"

"I do not know," was the mournful reply.

It was evident, that some reluctant consent was to be obtained, before a promise could be given. The mother was gently encouraged to send Carrie and the other children, who were old enough, if possible, to the school.

Sympathy would have dropped balm into the scorched and withered soul, such as are found hid away in dark corners in our cities; but forty years ago the drunkard's home was not disturbed by the temperance reform, or the Maine liquor law, as in our happier days. Griefs went on and finished up their short