discouragements that had thickened along their paths-all, all, was forgotten in the enthusiasm of the moment. The speaker paused; the flush in a measure passed from his cheek, his eye softened into a milder luster, and, turning to his instructors, thanked them in terms eloquently simple for their fidelity and forbearance, their reproofs and encouragements, and then, in the name of the class, bade them farewell. Diplomas were delivered, gratulations followed, and Edward Stanton retired to his room, too much excited to gain the repose necessary to recruit his wasted strength.

I am not happy; but I wish to be, I ought to be, I will be; so away, away, these sober thoughts that always leave a sting; there is no reason in the world why I shouldn't be the happiest creature in it. Why is it, with every thing to contribute to my happiness, I am always uneasy and discontented? There is cousin Lucy, with comparatively nothing to render life pleasant and desirable, and yet she is always as happy as a bird. What can be the reason of such a vast difference?" As Clara ascended the marble steps and entered the spacious hall, she again repeated to herself, "Yes, I ought to be happy, and I am determined at once to make an effort to be so."

CHAPTER II

"There, dearest mother, you have had your bath, and seem so comfortable, I will leave you to rest awhile; and if you wish the least thing, just tap the bell, and I'll hear you. Here is a kiss, too, to sweeten your slumbers," and the daughter bent over the emaciated form to bestow the promised caress. A tear, a single tear, a little tear, but a tear containing its world of meaning, had escaped from its fountain, and just as the lips pressed the cheek it fell upon the brow of the parent.

"Lucy, my child, my loved one, what means this? what sorrow have you, my daughter, unknown to your mother? Come and nestle in my bosom, and tell me what distresses you. You are not wont to conceal from your mother," and the maternal hand was outstretched to draw the daughter to her breast.

Morning came; but, instead of preparations for returning home, the lightning fled on rapid wing to announce to Mr. and Mrs. Stanton the sudden illness of their beloved son. They hastened to his bedside; but in time to receive the faint pressure of the almost palsied hand, and catch the last sigh escaping the lips so eloquent in life now chilling in death. Those lips had recently exclaimed, while viewing time and its demands, "I am prepared-I will triumph!" What said they when death's grim visage and startling voice demanded his preparations for eternity? Said they, "Though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me?" Asked they of Death, "Where is thy sting?" of the Grave, "Where is thy victory?" Alas! silence sealed them; death sealed them; the grave sealed them. As the flashing meteor darts along the sky, startling the beholder with surprise and admiration, and then in a moment loses itself in ether or dashes into the abyss of ocean, so this youthful spirit had started forth, sparkled for a time, and as suddenly closed his transient career in the dark waters of eternity. It was beside his cold form, hushed into rigidity, Clara Spencer had been standing. Could any other than most solemn thoughts press into the mind of the young girl, gay and light-hearted though she be? Could any other question oc. cupy her attention than the great leading ques tion presented to all upon the very threshold of accountable existence-what is the end for which I live? Philosophy has uttered her voice in answer to the query. Sects, numerous and diversified as the stars of heaven, all differing as one star differeth from another star in glory, have had their systems and their theories; but let these be simplified, and it will be found that all originate, and all terminate in the single desire Lucy gently lowered the blind, drew the curfilling the universal heart of mankind-"I want tains, and silently withdrew to her own little to be happy." Clara felt this want when she room. Truant tears that had started to her eyes, murmured to herself, "No, no, I am not happy and been refused expression, now flowed again,

"O, mother dear, never mind; it was a moment of weakness; you know how foolish I am sometimes. Do not let it disturb you; it is gone now. Try and sleep as sweetly as possible, and be sure to tap your bell as soon as you awaken. Now mind me, will you?" and Lucy tried to speak playfully as she again pressed a kiss upon her parent's brow.

"Yes, dear, leave me now, and I will endeavor to compose myself, for I need rest. But, my daughter," added she, "my daughter, you know the source of all strength. If any other sorrow is added to those you already have, go to the mercy-seat-go to your Savior. He has promised to bear your griefs and carry your sorrows. Go, my child, and may the angel of the covenant with you!"

go

and throwing herself on the bed, Lucy gave vent to her stifled emotion.

"O, has it come to this! has it come to this!" she murmured. "Must I let my mother suffer rather than apply to my uncle for a support? Suffer! no, my mother; much you have borne for me, it is little I can do for you. But those stern, dark eyes! how can I encounter them? Never, never can I summon the courage." She paused. "I summon the courage!" she repeated slowly; "indeed, never; but, 'through Christ strengthening, I can do all things.'" Lucy fell upon her knees, and in an agony of soul poured out her desires and petitions into the ear of Him who has declared, "Cast thy burdens upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee." O, how sublime the faith that flowed into that youthful breast while bowed at the mercy-seat! How pure and holy that light which spread over that sweet face, so lately drenched with tears! and what a strength infused to perform whatever duty Providence might impose! "Yes, yes, mother is right," thought she; "I must fly to the cross-and, O, what love and mercy are there blended!" She seated herself with the consciousness of new strength of soul, both to plan and execute. The past came up before her. The happiness that had spread through their little household but a few short years before, the illness and death of her beloved father, the subsequent struggles of herself and mother, the present debility of that mother, all passed before her. And now what was to be done? Their once comfortable support had been gradually diminishing, and the time had arrived when something must be put in operation to yield her the necessaries of life-her mother its comforts, and, if possible, some of its luxuries. But what could she do? Plan after plan occurred; plan after plan was rejected. There were insuperable jections to every thing upon which her mind could fasten. There was her piano-she might give music lessons; but her piano had been locked for months-her mother could not bear the sound. Perhaps it could be moved to some other place how could she leave her mother? A teacher was wanted in the new seminary to instruct in the very branches of study with which she was most familiar. That would be the very thing; but then her mother-she would be so lonely; indeed, could not possibly dispense with her. Scarcely an hour of the day but she performed for her some little office of love and comfort. What could she do? The future, with the threatening attitude of a hideous monster, arrayed in terror and darkness, started up before her, but

not a fear agitated, not a sigh escaped. That young heart wavered not from the faith it had reposed in the Rock of Ages. With an upward glance of trustful love, Lucy whispered, “I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee'-'tis mine, 'tis mine, and I will cling to it." The little bell tinkled, and Lucy entered her mother's room with a calm step and cheerful countenance.

"Come here, my child," said Mrs. Warner, "come and sit by me while I talk with you a little." Lucy obeyed; but as she drew toward the bed she observed the pale face had become more pallid, and the eye that had been sunken and dimmed by disease now shed forth a brighter luster. Mrs. Warner raised herself upon the pillows; her eyes closed, and Lucy beheld the big tears forcing themselves through the quivering lids. "Mother, dearest mother, what can be the matter? Tell me, tell me quickly, what so distresses you. I hoped you had been sleeping, but you look exhausted; you do not feel worse?" and she fondly stroked the faded cheek, and wiped the tears from her eyes.

"I am somewhat exhausted, my Lucy, but while I have strength I would talk with you. I feel, my child, that disease has almost accomplished its ravages upon my poor body; my feeble strength can not long endure. And, O, to leave you, Lucy, alone to battle with life's trialsalone to "

"O, speak not thus, dearest mother!" interrupted Lucy, throwing herself upon her parent's bosom; "do not thus agonize me; do not talk of leaving me! O my Father, spare the impending stroke! It can not be; it must not be; it shall not be!"

"Be calm, my child, be calm. Let not rebellious words escape your lips. God is love. He doth not willingly afflict; and though I am conob-scious that decay is rapidly progressing, my spirit, Lucy, my spirit mounts up on wings as eagles. When I think of leaving the world, with all its cares and all its woes, to worship before Him whom my soul adores, washed and made white in the blood of the Lamb, and to meet your beloved father-a glorified spirit-O Lucy, the thought is ecstatic; I feel not my weakness; I feel not my body. No, no, I soar above it all. Tears fall but for you, my poor child. The contemplation of your lonely orphanage falls upon me at times with an almost crushing weight; but faith sustains the shock, and I have a sweet assurance that all shall but tend to the glory of God. From your earliest infancy I have endeavored to instill principles of truth; and I thank God, my child, you have learned that this life is but a

“Lucy, you are not wont to speak in this rebellious way of the dealings of Providence."

very prone to unbelief is the heart! It was but a little while ago I left you, depressed with a sense of our pecuniary wants, and I went to my own room to implore grace for every trial, and ”—

"And you received the grace you sought; you were blessed with a view of your Savior, Lucy; your faith was strengthened, and you felt strong to endure. I saw it in your serene countenance when you came into my room. Ah, my child, what light will emanate from those who have been with Jesus!"

prelude to the one hereafter. We may here strike upon the harp of life a few chords that resound with melody; but there, my daughter, "It was wrong, sinful, I know," replied the shall one eternal chorus of music burst from the young girl, mournfully, burying her face in the golden strings, thrilling all heaven with its rap-bed-clothes; "but, O mother, how weak, how turous praise. Think much of heaven, my child, of the richness of redeeming love, of the glories of the cross, and their contemplation will lift you above the cares of the world, while its empty pleasures and vain pursuits will sink to their proper insignificance. And now, Lucy, seek for grace to bear this trial-the loss of the last friend you have on earth who will sympathize with and cherish you. Let it but draw you with a stronger cord to the side of your blessed Savior; and comparing your sufferings with his, keen though they be, your heart will be subdued, your affections purified, and Christ will reign there to sustain and guide. Try, my child, try through grace, to refrain from the least thought that would reflect upon the goodness of your heavenly Father; and, in thus trying, you will realize that supporting faith which alone can enable the soul to triumph in the hour and power of darkness."

Lucy had sunk upon the bed, overcome by her intense emotions. When her mother ceased speaking, she slowly raised her head, and, with a look that pierced to the very soul of that sympathizing parent, exclaimed, passionately, "O, mother, why does fortune select me as a fitting object on which to wreak its vengeance? why"“My child, my child," interrupted Mrs. Warner, “you amaze me. 'Fortune,' Lucy?",

"O no, no, dear mother, not fortune-Providence. God forgive me! I know that providence is in every event; but why, O why, must I so young be required to suffer such anguish? My sun scarce risen, and yet shrouded in gloom; my father snatched from our circle ere I could repay his love; want, poverty, threatening every day; but, above all, my mother-my mother-fading from my view, leaving me to wander over earth alone-O, is not my heart breaking-breaking, mother?" and, with a look of inexpressible agony, she tightly and convulsively clasped her hands upon her breast.

"My love, my Lucy," replied Mrs. Warner, putting her arm tenderly around her daughter, "God has, indeed, chosen you hitherto in the furcace of affliction. You have suffered much for one so young; but has it not resulted in bringing you to the cross? What would you now take, Lucy, for these very lessons, painful though they have been? But," added she, with a graver expression and in a more chiding tone,

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"Yes, mother, but it is all gone now," replied Lucy, with a heavy sigh, while the tears streamed down her cheek. 'My grace has just been tried, and fails. O, I shall never, never, be established in the life of faith!"

"Do not despond, my beloved child," said Mrs. Warner, while her whole heart melted in love toward that struggling spirit; "do not despair; but remember that it is by overcoming each trial as it is presented that the soul becomes grounded and established in faith and holy living. God gave you grace to bear the approach of poverty, and now, my child, seek for grace to sustain you in this heaviest trial. 'Ask, and it shall be given; seek, and ye shall find,' are the words of the immutable God; they must be fulfilled. O my child, I deeply, deeply, feel your distress; but remember whom God loveth, he chasteneth.' Let not your heart leave the mercyseat, my dear Lucy, till you can say, with a sweet acquiescence, 'Thy will be done.'"

That night, when Mrs. Warner was composed to sleep, Lucy trimmed the lamp anew, replenished the oil, and retired to her own room.

The same spirit that sustained the ancient patriarch to wrestle in prevailing prayer till break of day brooded over the young girl, as in the silence of night and solitude she prostrated herself before the throne of grace. Midnight witnessed her struggles; the bright morning star rose to celebrate the victory of her faith. The sun was scarce risen ere Lucy found herself walking with a quick, elastic step toward her uncle's dwelling. It was a fine, large, old-fashioned mansion, situated upon a high eminence; and the elegant cultivation of the grounds showed the owner to be a person of wealth and refinement. A broad avenue wound in a spiral from the base to the top of the hill, terminating in an extensive area in front of the house. The