I enclose $1 for the benefit of the Home. Mother sends you a dollar for the Advocate another year. We are all well at present. I often think of the Home, and feel grateful for the interest you have manifested in me. It is about nine years since I came here; I should like to visit you all once more. I do not attend school this winter. We have no preaching in our church, but father reads sermons every Sunday.

I AM very happy in my home, and I am very thankful when I think that Mrs. D. took me from that place in F. St., for if I had stayed there, I don't know what would have become of me; I am afraid I should now be a very bad girl.

I have been going to Sabbath-school ever since I came here. I now go to Bibleclass every Saturday night, to our minister's, where we read the Bible, and he explains it to us. I was confirmed by the Bishop, on his annual visit to this parish. I try to be a dutiful Christian and do my duty in the state of life in which God has been pleased to place me, and I thank Him for His mercy in placing me in a respectable position.

I HAVE been to school all winter. I am learning very fast. I have fine times this winter, hunting rabbits, with our Newfoundland dog; he is about 24 feet high, and 4 feet from nose to tail. You know by that, he is not a very small dog. I don't have very much to do; I go on errands, bring in wood and chips every evening, feed the cows, and sometimes the pigs, the latter, however, very seldom. We have three cows, two calves and one steer. Last summer was a very dry one, and feed is not very plenty. We have about 150 sheep; hay did not grow well, neither did corn nor wheat, though some had very good wheat. We had in about eleven acres of corn, which would have yielded a very good crop had not the squirrels taken a good portion of it.

I have attended school regularly this winter and still continue taking music lessons. We have a pleasant Sabbath-school here-I go every Sunday--we had a festival on Washington's birthday, for the school. I have been to

or California.

I feel that I am a true Christian, and I am trying to live for Jesus. I hope you will pray for me, that I may live a Christian life.

I am well, and still living with Mr. R., but oh, what a change has come over us. Since I last wrote to you Mr. R.'s oldest son has died; he died a Christian, and we have reason to believe he is now singing the song of the redeemed in heaven. Oh! blessed thought, "a home in heaven." I am striving, in my weak way, to have a home there, that when done with the toils and cares of this life, I hope we may all meet around the throne of God, an undivided family.

John, my brother, is well; he was home this last winter, and you may be sure I enjoyed his visit. He has re-enlisted; he is now a veteran at eighteen years of age. He is a brave soldier, and a favorite with all his comrades. He has

been in five or six battles and escaped unhurt,

except in the battle of Chancellorsville, where a ball grazed his side and made him lame for a while. It seems to me that God has watched over him so far, and with Him will I leave him for the future, trusting He will guard him from harm, and return him in safety to me.

mands made on us. I trust your cause may not suffer on account of these extra demands. M. L. A. E.

Not weary of well-doing. You will perhaps wonder that one at mother's age should leave long-endeared home associations and a loved companion's grave for untried scenes of pioneer life on the rolling prairies of this Far West. But addition of years has not diminished in her the desire ever to be useful, and as Providence

seemed to mark a more extended range to her labors of usefulness, by accompanying her children, with a number of other families, in a religious colony headed by a worthy reformer and instructor in God's truth, she has willingly laid aside her early attachments and entered her new field of labor. Although only a few months have passed in her new home, a large number of young people eagerly attend her | Bible instructions each Sabbath evening. E. M. W. L.

Infant Offering.-Enclosed please find $1 05, the contribution of my infant class in the Sabbath School, for the little "homeless ones" you are gathering. J. M. C.

Dear Mrs. Stone,-Enclosed please find $5 50 for the Advocate. I think this valuable little paper should find a home in every family. When I went among the old subscribers and asked if they wished to renew their subscriptions, they answered, "O, yes, we must take the Advocate again; we could not get along on Sundays for reading if we didn't have it."

Gone to rest.-Joseph Johnston, Esq., of Chicago, Ill., a long and tried friend of the Home, died April 15th, aged 57 years.

His home was the home of our agents in their western trips; they have received many expressions of kindness from his excellent family, and we deeply sympathize with them in their sad bereavement. In the departure of Mr. J. to the better land, the houseless and the friendless have lost a true friend.

Dear friends,-This money goes with an earnest prayer that it may help rescue some poor child from perdition, and that our Father in heaven may help you in your labors of love to Him. P.

ADVOCATE AND GUARDIAN TERMS.

do

Box 4740.

taught nothing bad, and would be well taken care of. Very different was it with Charlie's mother. While she wished to cherish in her child a spirit of love to all, she could not but dread an intimacy with one so carelessly trained. So while Frank's visits to Charlie were very frequent, Charlie's to him were very rare.

knew him, for his noble disposition and dutiful behavior. That he was a dutiful child, was simply because he had a mother who always required his obedience, even though he could not understand why a command was given. Obedience was an unalterable necessity, and if it could not be attained without, her tenderness did not prevent the use of the rod, in accomplishing the object. Yet Charlie's mother was not a stern woman, of whom all the little children were afraid. Oh, no, she was a graceful lady, with a sweet face, and gentle ways, a bright eye that could laugh a sunshine for little folks, when they were dull, and a pleasant voice, that could tell hundreds of pretty stories! She never thought it too sim-giving him one charge, that he must not go

"ple to play with children, nor too tiresome to teach them. And so, as you can well imagine, Charlie loved to sit by his mother, often, when he was weary of play, and listen to the wonderful things she could tell him, of those who had been great and good. Many noble resolutions sprung from those hours, as his mother meant there should, and affectionate gratitude grew up in Charlie's heart, for a mother so wise and kind. In short, Charlie loved to please her all the day, because he could not do without her approving smile, and when the day was done, he went to sleep, with her low prayer in his ear, resting in her love, and in the care of that Heavenly Father, to whom she always committed him.

It was winter, and the snow, which had fallen to a great depth, was piled by the wind in high drifts about the streets, and in the yards! Charlie had not been to see Frank for a great while, and Frank's mother sent to ask him to come over to play for an hour. With some reluctance Charlie's mother consented,

near the well-for as she had stood at the window that day, she had observed in her neighbor's yard a large drift heaped in the angle of some grain houses, and sloping from it to the curb of the well, which stood near, and which had no cover. The thought of its danger, should the children attempt to climb it, sent a thrill of apprehension through her mind, which she could not forget, when permission was asked for an hour of play.

As Charlie rarely disobeyed, and the storm had kept him in the house for some days, his mother gave her consent that he should go for a little while, repeating the charge, not to go near the well. Dragging their sleds, the boys gamboled about in the snow, mounting each drift and shouting to each other from the top of their mountains, as they called them. At last Frank espied the pile in the angle of the houses, exclaiming, "Oh, come, Charlie, here's the highest of all!" ran for the forbidden spot. In the heat of his glee, Charlie followed too, forgetting it was the very spot he was told not to go near. They had but began the ascent, when a voice from the street stopped them, and a servant from Charlie's mother bid him come home immediately. Charlie knew no other way but to obey, and not wishing to be left alone, and curious to know the reason of Charlie much haste, Frank followed.

Frank was a very different boy. He had a rough look, and a rough manner, almost spoke and acted as if there was no one else to be considered but himself. He was not a dutiful boy, because he had never been taught to obey. This mother loved him so well she thought that she could not deny him anything he wanted, and to use the rod upon him, she felt was too cruel. She could not do it. When he got older, she was sure he would leave off everything that was bad, from his own choice, because he would then see that it was wrong. Yet she did not win him to the love of that which is gentle and good, by condescending to make gentleness and good-hardly remembered yet that he had disobeyed ness attractive in story or song; nor strictly to inculcate self-sacrifice and generosity, in the familiar ways, and with the thousand opportunities that the skillful mother finds so ready to her hand. No, she thought the care and amusement of children belonged to nurses; and so Frank grew, mentally and morally, according to his own propensities, and disobeyed his mother times enough. She told him what he must do, and what he must not do, and he did as he pleased. Sometimes he obeyed, and sometimes not.

That these two little boys played together, happened just because they were neighbors. Their parents treated each other kindly, and as far as Frank's mother was concerned, it was a very pleasant thing for her to have so good a little companion for her son. She never needed to feel uneasy when her little boy was at Charlie's, at play; he would be

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his mother, till he saw her serious face, and heard her tell Frank that he must go home, for she wanted Charlie. But she could not refrain from saying to Frank as he went, "Frank, ask your mother if she does not think you ought not to go near the well, while the snow is piled about it so?" "Oh, she says I musn't go near it," carelessly replied Frank, "but I ain't afraid." "Well, my little boy must mind," said Charlie's mother, and taking him gently by the hand, she led him from the room. With eyes overflowing with tears, Charlie looked up to his gentle but firm mother: "Oh, mamma, please do not punish me-I forgot!"

"But that is just what you must not do; mother must punish you for disobeying, that you may remember." And while her heart melted with tenderness for him, and she would gladly have spared herself the pain of bestow

ing the chastisement, she dealt it faithfully, to the last stroke. With the tears falling from her own face, she led him back again, and seating herself in her accustomed chair, took him tenderly in her arms. "Now, Charlie will not forget?" "No, mother, but I wish you did not have to whip me!" "Mother would not if she did not love you so well." “Why, mother," exclaimed Charlie, starting up, "it seems to me you do not love me at all, when you punish me!" "But you know mother loves you." "Yes." "Well, mother loves you best of all when she punishes you for disobedience, and when you get older, you will understand how it can be true." With his arms about her neck, and looking into her face, Charlie sat listening to his mother's quiet words, till the sunshine came back into his heart. He felt sure that his mother loved him, though he could not understand all she did; and he fully resolved not to forget again.

That night it rained, and the next day everything was glassy with the frozen coat. Frank was over early, to ask if Charlie would come to play with him. He had something very beautiful, made out of the snow and ice, that he wanted to show him. "May I go, mother?" begged Charlie, "for a few minutes? I did not stay long yesterday, and I will not go 'near the well!'" "Yes, a little while." The beautiful sight did not occupy them long, and discovering that the snow-crust would bear them, they were soon walking about upon it, and sliding from every little bank. “Oh, that will be a splendid slide!” cried Frank, pointing to the drift above the wellcurb. "Oh, no, no," exclaimed Charlie, "you must not go there; that is near the well!" "Psira! I ain't afraid; come along." "No, I cannot," said Charlie, "any mother said no, and she punished me yesterday for going near it." "Oh," laughed Frank, "my mother will not punish me, though she told me not to go there;" and he began climbing the slippery ascent. Charlie stood some distance off looking on, and beseeching earnestly that he would come away. Frank reached the top, poised his sled, and seating himself, was pointing it for the descent, when, oh, frightful! quick as a flash of lightning, it sped down the glittering sheet, over the well-curb, and was gone!

Aghast, and scarcely comprehending the awful fact, Charlie stood an instant paralyzed with fear, then screaming with all his might, he ran hither and thither, calling first for his own mother and then for Frank's. Witnessing the sight from her own window, Charlie's mother was already on the spot, and a crowd were gathering at the screams of the terrified Charlie. A faint, prolonged ery arose from the well, and each new comer gazed into the depth below, with a look of despair, scarcely believing that the child could be there alive, and if he was, not knowing how they could rescue him. Frank's mother was wild with agony, beseeching everybody to go down for him, not

knowing in her distress what she said. Quicker than it can be told, a man sprang forward, and giving the crank by which the chain was wound, into the hands of another who stood by, directed him to let down the chain, while he himself, with one foot in the bucket, and his hands firmly grasping the chain above him, descended to the bottom. So hushed was every sound, that the plash of the bucket as it touched the water, could be distinctly heard, and the cry, "I've got him he's alive!" was answered with a shout of joy! The drenched and bruised boy was placed in the bucket, and the word was given to draw up. All depended upon the strength of the child to keep himself in an upright position. He was weak, and injured, but had yet life enough to understand what was told him, and to endeavor to cling to the chain. Slowly and steadily, while all held their breath again, the strong man wound up the iron thread that held a life at its extremity! Pale, but half conscious, yet clinging to the upright bale over which he was braced, the child approached the top! A dozen hands were outstretched to seize him, and just as his fingers relaxed their grasp, the foremost drew him from the peril of a second plunge to the depth below. They carried him to the house, and laid him on his bed, and there we will leave him with his father (who has just reached the spot,) and mother, and physician; for there he had to stay many long days and weeks. His sufferings were heart-rending to witness, and when at last he was lifted from his bed, he was a poor cripple, and a poor cripple he was always, feeble and suffering, and sad. A distorted spine and dwarfed body was the life-long penalty of this act of disobedience. Yet, who but will say, Frank was not alone to blame; he should have been made to obey.

Charlie never forgot the terror of that hour, and when all was over, and he was talking with his mother about Frank's sufferings, he exclaimed: "Oh, mother, that is what the whipping saved me from; for it made me remember!" "Now you believe that mother LOVED YOU WHEN SHE PUNISHED YOU?" "Yes, I do, mother, but poor Frank, a whipping won't save him now!" "No, it is too late to save Frank!-he must carry his punishment all his days!"

WHICH WAS THE GENTLEMAN? "CHARLES wants me to go to the party tomorrow night," said one lady to another, as the two sat in a comfortable parlor chatting and knitting.

"La! well, why don't you go, dear?" asked Mrs. Lawrence. I'm sure I would go if Henry asked me; I haven't been in company for such a long time, that I really think it would do me good.'

"That's just what Charley says, and he told

me Henry said he would take you, if I would go."

"La! did he? why, he didn't say anything to me about it; to be sure I'll go if you will. I'll just fix up my old brown silk, and put a new ribbon on my cap; we are old-fashioned folks, you know, and it won't matter how we dress." "I might have gone often," said Mrs. Abrams, placidly smoothing the fold of her gown; "but somehow I never wanted to. Charles is dreadfully anxious, that I should see Miss Somebody, I forgot who, some one he has taken a great fancy to; and I think whoever Charles likes, must be a little extra; so I am anxious, for a wonder, to go. Well, good morning: I put my bread to risin' and if I don't hurry it will be over the pans."

When Henry came home to tea, he was surprised and a little disappointed to hear his mother say that she would go with him on the following evening. As Mrs. Lawrence had said, both of the mothers were plain, old-fashioned people. They had once been poor, both had been left widows, but by much thrift and economy had managed to give their sons a good education, and they were both now rising young men with a fortune in prospect. Both being handsome, eloquent and fascinating, they were much admired by the ladies, and it was strange that they had arrived, one at the age of twenty-eight, and the other at thirty, without selecting wives for themselves.

The night of the party came; Henry Lawrence surveyed his mother with a critical eye as she came down stairs, handkerchief in hand, attired for the occasion.

"Haven't you a smaller handkerchief than that?" he asked, when she spread it on her lap, preparatory to adjusting her dress cap in it to carry, that she might not get it jamined.

"La, yes, that is the nicest," she replied; I put this beautiful great piece of lace round it a purpose; why don't you like it?"

"It isn't genteel; haven't you a smaller one?"

“La, yes; if you say so, I'll get one of them little mites of things; but this is more to my taste."

Well, we must start now; I shall be under the necessity of leaving you for a while after you get there, as I have to go for a young lady. Are you ready?"

"Oh, yes," said the cheerful old mother. "I shan't mind staying, and looking at the folks as they come in; it's natural for young folks to like young folks," she said to herself as she went up stairs to get her bonnet and shawl.

They walked nearly a mile; the rooms were just lighted when they arrived. Henry put his mother in charge of the lady's maid, and wished her to stay in the dressing-room till he came after her; then hiring an expensive carriage, he drove a quarter of a mile for a young lady of seventeen to whom he had offered his escort. Mrs. Lawrence sat contentedly chatting with the waiting-maid while the guests came to

unshawl, many of whom wondered who that queer old lady was.

Charles Abrams came home to supper the same night in high glee, "Well, mother, I declare!" as the old lady in a plain gray dress greeted him at the table; "you do look so nice! what a pretty cap you've got! and there -I meant to buy you a more stylish fan, but that is rather pretty, if it is plain."

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"O, yes, this is good enough for an old woman," said his mother, smiling.

"Nothing is good enough for you, mother, in my estimation," replied Charles, drinking his tea—“are you all ready?—because I have sent for a carriage and it will be here in a few moments. You won't object, I suppose, to riding with another lady, the very one, by the by, I am anxious for you to see.”

"I am ready," said his mother, smiling, "and I shall be very happy to ride with your friend; is it far from here?"

"Only half a mile," he replied, rising from the table," and there is the carriage."

Henry Lawrence entered the beautiful parlors with his mother on his arm, walked half sheepishly to the hostess and presented her, then looked her out a corner where she might sit if possible unnoticed, and where her oldfashioned sayings, and quaint, ungrammatical expressions would not be called out. After seating her, he hurried away, and entered with a dashing, showy girl, sparkling with jewels, whom he kept on his arm longer than etiquette required, and to whom he never mentioned his mother, fearing her ideas of gentility and modern elegance might receive a shock from which she would not recover.

Charles Abrams on the contrary, entered with his mother on one arm and a beautiful girl, splendidly, yet modestly dressed, on the other. Conducting both to seats, he led up his friends as he met them, and introduced his mother with as much grace, and proudly too, as if he had said, "All I am I owe to this excellent woman." And walked with her, in fact showing her more attention than the young lady, who it was plain to see, had won his love.

"I do not see Mrs. Lawrence," said his mother on one of these occasions, "I am afraid she didn't come. I have seen Henry several times, with a very handsome young lady."

"We will walk through the rooms," responded Charles, "I am certain she came." They found her at last, sitting contentedly but with a somewhat worried look upon her countenance as if she was not enjoying the evening as she wished.

"We have been looking for you," said Mrs. Abrams, "Why do you not come out among the crowd?"

"Oh! they are all strangers to me you know," said Mrs. Lawrence quietly.

"So they were to me," said the other; "but Charles has been introducing me to so many, that I feel tolerably acquainted now."

A look almost of pain passed over the pale face of her friend. Henry had been near her

but once during the evening, and then to request her not to show her pocket handkerchief too much, as it had an old-fashioned mark upon it. He had not brought up the stylish young girl and made her acquainted with the one on whom he had resolved to bestow his

affections, for she was intensely fashionable, and he was weak-minded enough to believe that a presentation would injure his suit.

"Are you not going to take your mother in to supper?" asked Charles of Henry; the latter had only the lady of his affections, the formmer, his mother on one side and his affianced on the other.

sweet and high to such persons will be the satisfaction of so doing. Thus Christ suffered, not for Himself, He had not sinned; but by our Lord's experience of suffering in this world, He is able to minister to us from the heavens. Why then may not His disciples consent, all cheerfully and willingly, to pass through a similar experience of trialto bear the cross with Him? Is it not beautiful to think, amid the terrible and confused scenes of this sin-marred earth, how surely the whole experience connects with eternal things, and how our most severe and bitter trials, may be preparing as for our sweetest offices of love and tenderness, from

The young lady gazed toward him inquiringly. Is your mother here ?" she asked "I should so liked to have seen her."

“I will bring her presently," said Henry, but the mischief was done. When the young lady saw the plain old-fashioned woman, with her homely common sense, she saw the heartlessness of the man who professed to love her, and from that moment he lost all charm in her eyes. To Charles's betrothed, on the contrary, the young man who could in the heartless face of fashion, show respect to grey hairs, and love, manly and noble, to the plain, illiterate mother who had reared him, was.above all petty pride, all littleness of character; and she gazed at him with humid eyes, and with feelings that would have been more precious to him, could he have known them, than her sweetest words of love.

Reader, which was the gentleman?

USES OF ADVERSITY.

Dear Friend-The following passages from a work I have lately been perusing, came to me with a comforting and strengthening influence. If you think they are calcula ted to do this for other minds, will you give them a place in the Advocate. Yours, affectionately, JENNET WILSON.

"NOTICE, then, the law of suffering. It is not so much penalty for so much sin, but is so much trial and affliction in various ways, for so much good to be accomplished in our spiritual nature. It will be manifest in the spiritual world, when the freed spirit shall ascend from its shackles of clay, in the clearer light of a better world, it will be seen how necessary was this compulsory training, to bring forth and ripen to perfection the willing fruits of obedience and love. Those who are called in the economy of God's Providence, to some important sphere of usefulness in this world but more especially in the life to come, are proven even to the seventh time, if need be, in the furnace of affliction. We know not, any one of us, for what offices in the spiritual world we are now being trained, nor how much our present trials and afflictions, are necessarily connected with the nature of that office. What if we are to become ministering angels to those who suffer here? Who so fit for angelic deeds of pitying love, as those who have themselves suffered, and been wrung with anguish? How

pleasure. *

*

*

*

*

*

Mrs. Stowe remarks 'the good of afflic tion is not often perceivable as the result of one paroxysm but rather as the aggregate of several. Some afflictions are like strokes of the axe and hammer, splitting and rending the depths of the soul; others are wearing and long continued, like the slow work of the file and polishing brush, and very seldom under the process, does the soul recognize their use, but after long years, a softened melody is produced as the result of all.'

Shall we not have faith in the Great Master Workman? Could a diamond speak, when the lapidary is leisurely filing away its glittering particles and vexing it with many frictions and polishings, it might say 'I could bear a good hammer stroke, but oh! this is wearing my very soul away.' Nevertheless the artizan knows that it is not the hammer, but the weary polishing that the diamond must have, to make it glitter at last royally in a diadem. Such are some of the most common-slow, wearing, heart-eating processes; an affliction, only recognized as such by the God who orders it, and knows the precise moment when it is best it should cease. Then let the soul embrace, with its deepest conviction, this answer to the oft-recurring question, Why am I thus tried?' 'Because this affliction and no other, could bring the intended blessing.' The Great Father is an economist in all His lavish profusion of riches, that nothing be wasted; but above all things is He saving of the sorrows of His people, not one tear too many, not one needless sigh, not one pang too much is the lot of the meanest of His chosen. ***

Human sorrow! It comes to all it is withheld from none. It assails us in various forms, in disappointment, poverty, chilled and blighted affections, sickness, death and all the sad variety of pain; and in every one of these forms it comes as a ministering angel, disguised in sackcloth, to do the bidding of the Almighty Father. In each visitation, in every blow, something is done to break up and dissipate the evil life of nature, to destroy our own selfish desires, and turn our wishes to higher, holier, more substantial things. At least, this is its legitimate and heavenly use. Sad is the visitation to the soul who will not profit by its crosses, but turns the cross itself into an instrument

of fretfulness, irreconciliation and rebellion, thus resisting in our self-will the means used for our good, and virtually saying 'Not Thy will, O God, but mine be done.""

*

SHE HATH FALLEN.
BY H. L.

ON her chain of life is rust,
On her spirit-wing is dust;
She hath let the spoiler in,
She hath mated her with sin,
She hath opened wide the door,
Crime has passed the threshold oler.
Wherefore has she gone astray?
Stood Temptation in her way,
With its eyes so glittering bright,
Clothed in angel-robes of white?
Panse-her story soon is told:
Once a lamb within the fold,
Stranger voices lured her thence,
In her spotless innocence.
Wee-she had not strength to keep
With the Shepherd of the sheep;
For the fleece, so spotless white,
Hence became the hue of night,
And she stood in her despair,
Bleating for the Shepherd's care.
Woe-that none might lead her back
From the bloodhounds on her track.
Hunger prowled about her path,
With a wild hyena laugh;
Scorn came leaping from its lair,
With defiant growl and stare;
And she grappled, all in vain,
With the fangs of Want and Pain:
Hope and Mercy shut the gate
On this heart so desolate.

So she turned again to Sin'!
What had she to lose or win'?
Resting on her life a stain,
Deeper than the brand of Cain.
Heard she mot a pitying tone?
Weeping in her shame alone?
Was there not a human heart
In her anguish bore a part?
None to hold a beacon-light
Up before her darkened sight?

*

Sisters, there is work to do,
Field of labor here for you;
Ye who pour the wine and oil,
Up-and rest not from your toil,
Till the bruised and wounded heart,
Aching from the Tempter's dart,
Sore and weary with its pain,
Shall be bound and healed again-
Till no more defiled by Sin,
Like the pardoned Magdalen,
Kneeling in repentance sweet,
She may wash the Saviour's feet
With Her tears, that, while they roll,
Blot the sin-stain from the soul.
Do ye ask for your reward?
Blessed are they who serve the Lord.

Industrial Schools.-The Superintendent of the Cleveland Ind. School says, in the Seventh Annual Report: "Thousands of children, tempted by poverty and influence to commit crimes punishable by the State, are now stimulated to industry and a prospect of usefulness. Many, to our knowledge, who were on their road to ruin, are, at this time, earning an honest livelihood. The Industrial School is a centre point to which benevolent hearts are drawn, and from which spring innumerable blessings to those most needy and deserving."