For the Advocate and Guardian. Do not, my friends, imagine me in a famous castle of the olden time, or in some stately building of the present day; do not for a moment believe that I am rolling in wealth and luxury, and puffed up with pride, and the conceit that these things sometimes bring, but look upon me as just what I am; an humble individual, earnestly desiring the happiness of others, and the reformation of my poor degra ded fellow men, and yet unblest with the pecuniary means to render them the assistance that I could wish. Under such circumstances, what can I do but build castles of my own, out of the materials of my own imagination ; and what poor creature in similar circumstances has not done the same, and raised these airy castles as a sort of compensation for those which he cannot attain? Mine is found in the most disgusting portions of our city, it rises to my view amid sounds of profanity and scenes of dissipation and filth, and is elevated still higher and higher by the cries of helpless children, and the poverty, ignorance, distress and sin of the poor, weak, sick and depraved creatures who inhabit those polluted regions. My castle is a model of comfort and cleanliness; it is not distinguished by turrets, domes or ramparts, by marble, oak or granite; no huge pillars sustain its walls, and no costly furniture embellishes its apartments. It is a plain, neat, spacious building, with plenty of windows to let in the clear light and fresh air of heaven and plenty of pure water and convenient baths to carry off the filth of earth. A place where the wretched can coine, and under the supervision of competent persons, can learn to live and lead a new life. A self-supporting place, where the abilities of each individual could be correctly ascertained and daily occupation of a suitable kind, provided for each, where the earnings of the industrious should not be wasted by the extravagance or ignorance of the vicious and intemperate, but all should come under one wholesome rule; where the children should be cared for and each returning laborer should be sure of a comfortable meal, and a quiet home after the toils of the day were over. Who that has walked through some of our city streets, would not long for some such place as this, into which he could thrust the majority of those poor objects which constantly meet the eye? Half-clad men, whose faces and forms have lost nearly every vestige of humanity, lost women with blotched skins and tattered garments, lolling idly about the ground, and passing the rude joke with their more sensual companions, and screaming children, in filth and nakedness, dragged about and tortured by those of a larger growth. These are the poor wretches who greet the eye, and impede the steps of all who visit the localities to which I have alluded, and I mention them not to have them avoided, for I would institute a law, that each adult citizen of this great metropolis, should if possible, visit annually, some one or more of these regions of iniquity; not as you and I sometimes do, in a hasty walk to some ferry, with our eyes and ears partially closed, but with a scrutinizing officer at hand, and with a determination to see the depth of the evil. Whoever should do this and see even the poor dog and cat, slinking away, as if ashamed of their vile companionship, and of the filthy and swillstained coats in which they are forced to appear, whoever should do this, must mourn over the depravity of our nature, and must long to rescue these poor outcasts from this place of perdition. I never pass these wretched spots that I do not yearn for that law of the Persians which would give the young children into the hands of the state, where they would be trained to habits of decency and usefulness; now what an element of good is lost to our country, and what a vast source of evil and wretchedness is thrown out, the multitudes who are daily becoming initiated into the fiendish vices of their parents. A heart is not sufficient to remedy these evils, a hand also is needed, and a large one, for the evil is a many-headed monster which seems to grow larger and spread wider every day. Air-castles like mine will not benefit these poor sufferers, but we want the more substantial ones of earth, and in greater number than we now have them; we want them fortified with morality and all the Christian graces, and we want to ferret out all these sinks of iniquity, and cause them to give way to the better places of which I have spoken. When we have these we can walk our streets in peace, and have less to mourn over when we go to our homes. E. EXTRACTS FROM CORRESPONDENCE. We Dear Friends at the Home,-In the last DIED In Winchester, N. H., Mrs. Almyra Kingman, aged sixty-four years. She was a friend to the " Home," and her hands labored for the little ones gathered under its roof, as they did cheerfully in every other good cause. With wealth at her command, she lived a life of self-denial and economy, but her purse was ever open to the destitute and suffering. Hers was a useful, blameless and happy life. The presence of the Saviour gave her the peace which passeth understanding, and we all felt that she was a true Christian woman, and deplore her loss where there are so few to fill her place. Just edging this life's outmost bound It is linking the great Beyond There's a home just over the tide From the cloud this earth-life wore And there is "the rest which remains," Just beyond its prayer; We think of the new spring's breath, We think of the deep, restful tide, But life is an unfinished dream; There are trials which yet must be met; Father, grant strength, 'mid life's pain ADVOCATE AND GUARDIAN. TERMS. do CORA. $1 a year, [in advance] to Single Subscribers. Four copies, to one address, at the rate of 75c a year. Eight do do do 60c Twelve copies, [and over] to one address, 50c do Letters concerning the Advocate and Guardian, and those containing funds for the Society, should be addressed: MRS. SARAH A. STONE, 29 E. 29th Street, Box 4740. New York. Letters designed for publication, should be addressed to the Editress of the Advocate and Guardian, 29 E. 29th St., New York. Box 4740. Letters designed for the Board or Executive Committee, and Reports of Auxiliaries, address Corresponding Secreta ries, A. F. G. Soc., 29 E. 29th St., New York. Box 4740. Advertisements. Only short ones are received-20c a line. [No. 705. Nov. 1, 1864.] Published, Semi-monthly, by the Executive Committee of the AMERICAN FEMALE GUARDIAN SOCIETY, at the House of Industry and Home for the Friendless, 29 E. 29th St. EDITED BY MRS. SARAH R. L. BENNETT. For Terms and Notices, see Last Pages. For the Advocate and Guardian, BY EFFIE JOHNSON. DYING-and yet no prayer is said The death-damp gathers o'er the brow, And through the gloomy gates of death A human soul is passing now. Gloomy, for all beyond is dark No ray of light illumes the gloom O, light, O, love, where is thy power? O, Christ, draw near this parting soul! For all my life I've hated Him, Gone-with that dying look of hate Still lingering in those stony eyes! O, let me learn, from this dread hour, O let my soul safe sheltered be Beneath the shadow of Christ's love, For the Advocate and Guardian. STEPHEN CREMORNE was an old man, old His four-score years and ten, it seemed a little time to look back, but when he counted them slowly--the years of childhood, youth, manhood and old age, he shuddered and wept. Who kept the record of all those years? Only ten years less than a century, very little could he remember-did God know better than he? Were the thoughts and words and deeds of the days of all those years written by God's fingers in His recording Book? Whole No. 706. near the grave with a shrinking dread of the try, and he had prayed so earnestly that night, Was it too late? Could it be too late? If he had only thought of this before, fifty, forty, twenty years, or even one year before. God had remembered him with tenderness all these years, but heedless and caring not for Him, why should he care? The ground was firm under his tread, he felt the quick, bounding life in his veins, why should he care then? But now his palsied hands trembled on the top of his staff, he only tottered as he tried to walk, and his dimmed eyes had no dear face to rest on. Stephen Cremorne was standing on the the earth, the rush of young, eager life pushed soul." To-morrow morning would bring the light of his ninety-first New Year. It was almost midnight now, the old man sat by his lonely fire, in its light reading all his past. All those happy New Years in his mother's home, when he never forgot to say his prayers at night and when the thought of God was pleasant to him, and once when the old minister had said, "Love God now, my boy, don't wait till you are old," and how he had thought he would And his wife, yes, he had promised, just to quiet her when she died. That was long ago, and the remembrance of the half-century intervening brought no comfort. How many times the Spirit had come into his heart and he had grieved it away. Would it ever come again? If he could only go to his Father now, how he would love to fall, so wearied and helpless, and old and broken-spirited, at His feet; but it must be too late now. Stephen Cremorne leaned on his staff and groaned in spirit, the fire died out, the clock struck twelve and the dawn of another-his That Spring came, but the young, fresh life, the emblem of the resurrection brought no gladness to Stephen Cremorne. He was only waiting to die! One morning he sat at his cottage door, leaning on his staff, his head bowed and on his lips trembling a little feeble prayer that God would have mercy on him, a sinner. "Good morning," said a merry voice, and a boy on his way to school stopped in front of him and repeated his cheery "good morning." "Good morning," said the old man raising, his head, "and a long, bright life to you, my son," "Life is bright enough to me, Father Stephen," said the boy. "Perhaps it is, it was to me once. Remember your Father now, and it will always be bright, and the end brightest of all.". "There's time enough, Father Stephen, when I'm old like you, I'll begin." "Old-like me," Stephen's voice trembled, "Did the Spirit ever ask you to love Jesus?" "I don't know," said the boy, a little frightened. "He will come to you, He does to everybody, and there will be a last time-remember a last time." "And then?" the boy whispered. "And then, after death the judgment, just reject. They forget that the Son of the Most remember that." "Has he come to you for the last time?" "I don't know, I'm afraid so. God have mercy," and his head sank on his staff again. The boy went on swinging his satchel and whistling, but he paused a moment at the school-gate just to ask God never to let His Holy Spirit leave him, and Stephen Cremorne prayed leaning on his staff, "O, Holy Spirit, come back to me again." Spring grew into summer, one afternoon Father Stephen was sitting at his cottage-door half asleep, with the prayer that never left him quivering sometimes hopefully, but oftener a wail on his lips. The country lay asleep in the summer sunshine and Father Stephen fell asleep dreaming that he was welcomed, a son in his Father's home. "Good afternoon," said the school-boy, throwing his satchel down on the grass, "How do you do, Father Stephen?" แ "Passing away, my son, I shall soon be gone?" "Are you glad you are going home?" "I'm not sure, if I were sure, I should be glad." The boy sat down on the grass and looked up pityingly into the old man's face. "I wish you were sure, Father Stephen, I wish I could do something for you." "Serve God now, don't put it off, I can be an old guide-post, warning of the wrong way and pointing to the right, if I can't be anything else." "Why can't you be anything else?" "Who said so? God hasn't." "God hasn't-oh, perhaps He hasn't," and Stephen's face grew radiant with the new thought, "God hasn't said so; I thought He had." The boy spoke again, but Father Stephen's head was bowed on his staff, "God hasn't said SO." "I will arise and go to my Father." The old man arose and tottered into the cottage. The next morning he died; "of old age," the neighbors said, but the school-boy thought he High, the only begotten of the Father, "the brightness of His glory, and the express image of His person," was "made flesh and dwelt among us." He came from a place of perfect happiness to one of sorrow: from where all tears are wiped away, to our earth where they are constantly falling. He came to wear a human form, to be exposed to temptations, to endure human sorrows. He had no place there to lay His head. He suffered with hunger, when He knew that the silver and gold were His, and and the cattle upon a thonsand hills. Truly He was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. It was the Lord of glory who came thus-not to judge and punish His guilty subjects, for He says, "I came not to judge the world;" and again, "I came not into the world to condemn the world." It was not to rule, for He said, "My kingdom is not of this world." "The Son of man came to seek and to save that which was lost." The world was created by the "word of His power;" for its redemption Christ died. Would that those who are endeavoring to chastise and bring back those in rebellion against an earthly government, might remember their own great sin against a higher government; that the question might come home to them, "Thou that makest thy boast in the law, through breaking the law dishonorest thou God?" How many of those who desire the great blessing of peace for our land, have not yet made their peace with God. Let all such remember that Jesus came to save. Cast all your care upon Him, for He careth for you. And the "peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds, through Christ Jesus." M. L. For the Advocate and Guardian. UNDER MY WINDOW. THE autumn leaves were lying thick and golden upon the walk, and bending over, with her fingers diving into this wealth, was a respectable woman, who seemed intent upon her object, whatever it might be. For a moment my eyes rested upon the bowed figure, and my thoughts went roving to combinations of great beauty, made from the discarded treasures of the trees. "She will twine boquets for her mantel," said I, "or form wondrous frames for pictures, or group in one elaborate casket these gems that vie with the emerald, and the topaz, and the carbuncle, and the ruby. I have seen whole branches waving brilliantly from tall vasesshe will cluster the rich leaves, and make a mimic autumn in the parlors of her city home." There was such pleasure in these imaginings but, alas, no truth, for the ideal is terribly lost in the sternly real in this life-and instead of stooping joyously to gather the gold, and russet, and crimson leaves to adorn her rooms, the poor woman was eagerly searching amid the fallen treasure for the necessary wealth of refuse coal. My heart ached for her as she pursued her miserable task; but it leaped forward with glad anticipation to the time when the trees will no more cast their leaves, and there shall be neither frost nor cold. F. B. S. HOW TO MAKE BEAUTIFUL HOMES. The greater part of our population are waiting till they can afford to have pleasant homes, forgetting that they can at no time afford to have any other. We take the color of our daily surroundings, and are happier, more amiable, stronger to labor, and firmer to endure, when those sorroundings are pleasing and in good taste. To possess these important qualities, they need not be expensive. True beauty is cheaper than we think. The first charm of a home, within and without, is thorough neatness, and this is the result of habit, not outlay. It is often cheaper than filth. Paint the house if you can if not whitewash; but in any case let it be in thorough repair. Let there be no loose shingles, or dangling clapboards, or gate hanging by a broken hinge. These hints favor thrift as well as taste. Let the house be sufficiently shaded. This will pay in comfort, wear of furniture, and lack of flies. If you cannot afford green blinds, you can always afford a green tree or two, that costs nothing but labor and patience, and will shelter you from the sun in Summer and the wind in Winter. Plant vines of some kind about your premises-they are indispensable to grace; they show that nature takes kindly to your home, and has thrown her arm round it. You need not resort to costly climbers; woodbine and clematis may be had for the gathering, and grapes and hop-vines may be so trained as to combine beauty and profit. Let your turf be smooth and firm as velvet, and enforce the death penalty upon weeds with an unsparing hand. No man, rich or poor, can afford to raise weeds. They choose the richest spots, where flowers, or fruit, or vegetables, might grow, and send abroad their seeds as missionaries of evil into every nook and corner. Ill-kept places al ways have their vegetable "Five Points," where sin and misery are mimicked in pigweed, burdock and nettles. A very few flowers will suffice; a monthly rose in the window, a morning-glory over the doorway, a bright border between your kitchen garden and the street; these add to the picture just those touches of color that make it pleasant to the eye. With half a dozen cheap and common kinds, your wife will take care that something is always in bloom. But flowers are gross feeders, and if you keep no domestic animals, you fancy, perhaps, that you have no manure. You never were more mistaken. Every human dwelling is a center of fertilizing agents, mostly wasted as times go, rich enough to make the whole plot around it blossom as the rose. Tell the soil that you have nothing to give it! Give it what you have, and it will laugh in your face. The suds from the laundry is a store of liquid wealth. Never waste a drop of it in drains or sewers. It is a floating currency, promising to pay roundly in grass and vegetables and fruit. Invest it in your home bank, which never suspends payment. These grassy slopes are greenbacks whose issue is as good as gold. Carpet sweepings are manure in a concentrated form. Dug into your flower-borders, they weave a a richer pattern than the one from which they were woven. Those old bones that deform the premises, if buried beneath the grape vine will be "health to the bones" of all your friends. Old boots and shoes, those most unsightly wrecks, are the favorite food of the raspberry and all its palatable kin. Tainted brine, if such unhappily is yours, is a treasure for the plum-trees and the asparagus-bed; slaken lime with it, and it will make a rich dressing for any garden soil. Every household should have its compost-bed, be it only an old packing-box, where woolen rags, bits of paper, apple paring, refuse of vegetables, slops from the kitchen, chips and saw-dust, are storing up the elements of a glorious growth. Let not yours be one of the homes, where all these bright possibilities arrive only at "burning instead of beauty." We have named but a part of the fertilizers of every household. Generally speaking, whatever is offensive to the sight or smell is urging the appeal to our revolted tastes, Bury me, and I'll do you good.—Springfield Repub lican. For the Advocate and Guardian. A WORD TO MY COUNTRY WOMEN. THERE never has been a time since the commencement of the nation's strife, when women could say, we have no part to take in behalf of our country. Their earnest pleadings before Israel's God, their works of love, their tears of sympathy, their willing sacrifices, the abundance of their hearts, by mouth and pen, their sweet and potent influence, direct and indirect, have all been loudly called for, and their blessed privilege to give. And while the strong arms of their brothers may not cease in their utmost exertions till the top stone of Liberty's temple has been brought forth with shoutings of praise to Him who laid its corner-stone and superintended its up-rearing, neither may they who, like the Marys, follow Him who was annointed "to preach good tidings to the meek, to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, the opening of the prison to them that are bound," cease doing what they can till the mighty, indestructible, gloriously beautiful structure, stands, the admiration, the joy and rejoicing of every lover of God and humanity. As, now and then, when the smoke and din of successive battles subsides, and faith renews her expectant gaze, and this and that added stone is beheld, and complete accomplishment is more and more sounded out as the nation's will, let her words of cheer become more frequent and hearty, and all the intellectual, moral and physical power of which she is possessed, be zealously laid under tribute toward the vast undertaking. The time was when comparative secrecy characterized the righteous work of our country. The whys, wherefores and intentions were only whispered. But as the necessity, importance, blessedness and results of that work have been unfolding in the light of God's truth and the experience of the country, the nation has become more out-spoken, more daring; and now this truth has obtained such magnitude and become so pressing, that many of our appointed teachers are fearless in declaiming the whole counsel of God; and in some it is as a fire shut up which must and does blaze forth. O, when truth is unbound, what encouragement to labor and pray! For has not the God of truth said, "My word shall not return unto me void;""Whatsoever ye sow ye shall reap"? There is no exemption from this warfare of right and wrong principle, of truth and error. Male and female have already been drafted therein by Jehovah of hosts. We may not guiltlessly evade it. We may with honored consent obey it. Yes, dear sisters, we may and must use those weapons which are not carnal. The glittering, two-edged sword, the word of the Lord; the all-prevailing prayer which "moves the arm that moves the world;" the helmet, our glorious hope of certain deliverance; the preparation of the gospel of peace; the mild, winning, permeating influence of a Saviour's spirit exemplified; the shield of faith, which will quench all the fiery darts that would seek to hinder our helping hands, we must use; and with them shall not fail greatly to assist our noble brothers in undermining and destroying the strongholds of evil, and in carrying up the building that must ultimately defy all the assaults of foes and the ravages of time. He who is no respecter of persons will work by these, His own appointed means for His own glorious triumphs, through him or her who will obtain and use them.. Yea, Ile delighteth to use "the weak things of the world to confound the things that are mighty, and things that are naught to bring to naught things that are." Let us, then, in this battle of the Lord's-for verily the principles of His own eternal throne have been assailed-obtain from the divine resources continual supplies of light, strength, wisdom and love, entreating the God of David to teach our hands to war and our fingers to fight;" and when the triumphal procession of Victor Immanuel's host shall be gathered from earth's campaigns for the honors of the coming day, we, too, may share in its laurels and crowns. S. B. 8. WE copy the following from The Citizen, a very excellent weekly journal, published by the Citizen's Association, of New York. This Journal is eminently worthy the patronage of all who desire to aid by personal and Christian influence, the moral and sanitary reforms so imperatively needed in this great city.-En. THE FAMILY. IF there be on earth an institution which may pre-eminently claim a divine origin, it is the family. Its founder is God himself. He designed it as the seminary, not only for the nurture of our physical nature through infancy and weakness, but much more for the inculcation and beautiful growth of those sentiments and principles which prepare us for the service of God and mankind, in all the offices of love and duty, of patriotism, humanity, religion, and form the charactar which heaven can admit to its everlasting mansions. This is the proper scope and purpose of the family institution, and no adequate substitute for its agency exists on earth. How beautifully, and by what a sweet process, is the education of the heart and its affections conducted in the bosom of a judicious and pious family, through infancy, childhood, and youth! A presence and a power are there, hallowing all they touch, felt in the depths of the soul, in the visitings of strange joys, in the ethereal dreamings of hope, in the balmy air of love and fond tenderness, in the soft and holy light that falls from heaven on the family altar, the patriarchal priest, the big old Bible, and the mother's eye so mild and saint-like. What wonder that in all life's changes, roam where we may, and in whatever circumstances, the Christian home of our childhood is remembered with religious yearnings; the green sward, the brook, the cottage, bathed in mellow light, never fade from the past, and thither, back from our most distant wanderings, we repeat the gladly made pilgrimage to that "Palestine and Mecca of the mind ;" and often, amid the strifes of the world and the vaultings of ambition, we are both reproached and soothed with the hope, that in the spot where our infancy uttered its first innocent lisp, our old age may disburthen itself of sin and care, and slumber as sweetly as we then did upon our mother's bosom ! The family institution can never be set aside without dire and monstrous results. It was ordained to fit men for usefulness, for kindness, for deeds of generous benevolence, love and mercy, and no substitute for it can be found. As the progress by which the fruits of the earth are brought forward from the bud and blossom to finished ripeness and beauty, by which is imparted the inimitable and living blush, the fragrant odor, the perfect flavor, can be carried on only by nature, by laws of assimilation, affinity, and thousand-fold elimination, above all counterfeiting art of chemist, painter, and sculptor, so the process of forming, training ripening the heart, can be achieved only by the thousand-fold influence of the family institution. All the philosophers and artists in the world cannot make a peach--all the schools and governments in the world cannot make a MAN, and put a warm and gentle heart into his bosom. Alas! how many stupid attempts to do it have been made and failed. Train vines on the north side of an iceberg, moisten their roots with Dead Sea water, and expect juices, bland and nectarean as from fruits mellowed beneath Italian skies. Train man's heart elsewhere than amid the select and sacred influences and associations of home, and with equal reason expect from it the gentle, generous beating of humanity. There are no springs of love where there are no gushings of household memories. THE SPIRIT OF OUR SOLDIERS AND SAILORS. IN Bishop Potter's address before the recent Convention of the New-York Diocese, occurs the following passage, which must be very grateful to every true lover of his country. All honor to the loyal and patriotic bishop: "And now, since in bodying forth an image of self-devotion, thoughts of war and of a struggling country have come rising up with it, let me, in a single word, refer to one part of my experience during the last three years, which, to me, has been, in these days of sorrow, full of consolation-not a little encouraging to hope. Within three years often, on special occasions and under peculiar circumstances, I have confirmed a large number of officers and soldiers of the army and navy of the United States. They were going to the front, or temporarily returning from it, in not a few cases, about to face the last great enemy in the sick-room. Opportunities were often afforded for a good deal of private conversation, and in many instances I had the inexpressible satisfaction of observing what I thought clear indications that the persons whom I met had been made, not worse, but better, while periling their lives in the sacred cause of their country. The fact is no doubt, often otherwise. Nevertheless, the observation which I have made is, I believe, more extensively true than we are apt to imagine. But what I designed more particularly to remark was something quite different. It was the almost universal absence, in those officers and men, of everything like a violent spirit of faction and party. They were for their country before all things else; for the restoration of peace, order, and unity; for the vindication of the national authority; for the maintainence of the integrity and sovereignty of the one supreme Government, without which we cease to be a nation, lose every security for peace and every title to respect, and become the prey of domestic broils and foreign enemies. These gentle but heroic men, were little inclined to cavil about subordinate points of difference. They might nominally belong to one party or another; their preferences might incline one way or another on many political questions; but they saw that everything dear to the heart of a Christian patriot was at stake. They believed that every question of the day, however magnified by excited minds, was utterly insignificant compared with the one present, vital, supreme object of beating down the unhallowed sword of rebellion, and reinstating an insulted and distracted country in her place of strength and glory. God give us all a like spirit? I fully appreciate the evils of war. I sigh and pray for peace-peace in the righteous triumphs of a just Government. For great armies and navies I have no especial predilection; but I am sometimes made to feel that there is one place where patriotism-devoted love of country-may survive and burn brightly even though it should perish everywhere else; and that is among the heroic men who daily face death rather than see that country dismembered, dishonored, and ruined." Children's Department. For the Advocate and Guardian. LITTLE MARGIE'S GREAT WORK. Concluded. THE fierce, burning heat of an August sun glowed upon the red brick of the houses and pavements of the close, crowded city. Stately mansions and gorgeous marble halls were in most cases deserted, their occupants having sought refuge in cool country seats and fashionable watering-places, but the close, confined dwellings of the poor contained multitudes who had no such refreshing change, and amongst these during the summer months sickness and death usually make frightful havoc. Hugh used often to congratulate himself that his house was not located in the crowded business streets of the city, but in a more retired place, with but few stores around, but the terrible heat of to-day seems to leave little room for congratulation. The streets are almost deserted, here and there a few pedestrians are seen, but they walk along with languid step, and everywhere men gaze at each other in blank, hopeless apathy, or silent fear. Cholera, that terrible scourge of the race, is abroad, pestilence stalks in the streets, and day by day some poor victims are borne along to their last resting-place. All who can, leave, but there are still thousands left, and many of these are doomed creatures. Hugh's little shop is closed and the furniture has been removed, within all is silent and desolate. Ah! a long black crape flutters from the door. Death, the king of terrors, has been there, but whom has he called away? Is it Margie? No, it is neither Margie nor her father-the gentle spirit of Margaret Wilson has taken its flight. Her holy work, her exalted mission is done; no more will she minister to her family, her la bors of love are over; suddenly a chariot of fire rested at the door of that humble mansion, and from the heated little room, from the cares and toils of life, she went up to the city whose streets are of pure gold and the leaves of whose trees are for the healing of the nations. Sudden and glorious change from darkness to light, as when the traveler emerges from dry, parched deserts to a land springing with eternal fountains of living waters, from feverish pain and suffering, to where all these are "felt and feared no more." And poor Hugh felt crushed by the blow, a few days' sickness, (yet longer than usual in such a disease,) then an eternal separation. Could it be possible? He looked from his dying wife to his almost motherless children, and so with his great brawny hand clasping her thin, wasted one, passed the last few hours of their earthly communing. How human nature clings to and recalls those hours, and how all too rapidly they vanish into the sorrowful past! "Oh! my poor children," said the dying woman, her breath growing fainter as she spoke, "how can I leave them so soon?" and her eye rested upon the minister who had been suddenly called in. "I will be a God to thee and to thy seed after thee," he repeated in a solemn, impressive tone. "The promise is to you and to your children, can you not leave them in the hands of a covenant-keeping God?" The dying eye grew brighter, holy faith could triumph even then-hope could light up even that last awful hour, faith had made "Even that gloomy vale of death A smile of glory wear." "Yes," she slowly faltered, "I can leave them-leave them in His hands, keep them safe, Father, from the evil that is in the world and gather us all together again." Feebly and slowly came the parting breath, a deathly stupor clouded the brain, so that the mother, whose heart had so yearned over her little ones, knew them not, as they stood around her; night cast a pall over the city, in whose midst the angel of death had been gleaning for the harvest, but long ere it fell, Margie's great trial and with it her great work had fallen upon her. Silently Hugh watched the preparations for the hasty funeral, a few neighbors gathered in. For one short day he was left alone with all that remained of his wife, the simple services were then performed at the house, and four hacks wound their way to the cemetery. Alas! there is so much irremedi |