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homeward her thoughts ran thus. "But this gentleman was a scholar,—I saw a hook under his arm. Can he be the new professor at the college, of whom my father spoke as the son of his old friend, Judge Carlton? I will not think so—it must be Wallace—it is he that I have seen in my thought."

The very suggestion of another had given her the strange guiltiness of feeling, that one really betrothed might be supposed to have, whose mind had wandered from its constancy, and she entered the house in a state between selfreproach, hoping, and fearing. Not on familiar terms enough with her father to make inquiries touching the young man, she judiciously restrained the question that rose to her lips on meeting him, and not finding the hoped-for message from Aunt Rachel, she remained at home the rest of the day. As evening approached, she was sitting by the window looking abstractedly out into the twilight, when a rap at the door, followed by her father's " Who can that be?" reminded her that she was in the same room with him. The servant ushered in a gentleman, who handed a letter to her father, on reading which, he introduced the stranger to his daughter as Mr. Carlton. She rose and courtesied with as much composure as she could assume, recognising in the twilight the outline of the person she had met in the wood. His voice had the same deep melody in her ear, and the same air of high breeding marked his every word and gesture. She could not command herself sufficiently to join in the conversation with ease; but occasionally made a remark, which was received by the young man with evident pleasure. Her father made himself more than usually agreeable, and when Mr. Carlton rose to depart, his call not having exceeded the bounds of courtesy, he cordially invited him to visit them again. When Alice retired to her chamber, a crowd of uneasy thoughts oppressed her, such as she had never experienced before. For the first time, the remembrance of Aunt Rachel gave her pain instead of peace; for how could she tell her of her adventure in the wood—of Mr. Carlton's visit, and least of all, the emotions he had excited? It would grieve her friend, and yet, how could she withhold anything from her whose bosom had so long been the repository of all her thoughts? Then her mind would revert to the beautiful young man again, and yielding to pleasurable emotions, for a time she would forget all else. So she fell asleep on this first night of a new existence, to dream alternately of Aunt Rachel and the stranger.

The following day she did receive a message to go to her friend, which she obeyed with trembling steps; but on meeting her, the more than ordinary smile of pleasure with which she

was welcomed, gave a fortunate reassurance to her heart, and composure to her manners. Aunt Rachel ii 'ormed her that >he had just received a letter from her son, containing the joyful information that lie and his friend would soon be with her. "But Alice, thou art not well!" she said, on turning to meet the young lady's affectionate response; "thy cheek is not so rosy as it was when I saw thee last—I feared thou wert sick, not seeing thee yesterday." Alice quieted her fears by saying that it was nothing but a headache that affected her spirits a little; yet owing to pleasing anticipation on the one part, and some sort of expectation on the other, that can scarcely be defined, their interview was not that "getting into the quiet" which they were accustomed to, and Alice returned from her visit less composed than she went. She had agreed to spend the following day with Aunt Rachel, when her guests were expected to arrive, and somehow or other, she felt no pleasure at the thought But go she must—and did. The fatted calf had been killed, and all things were in abundant readiness for the return of the long-absent son. The expectant mother was too much engaged in her substantial preparations to notice any despondence on the part of her young friend, after receiving from her an assurance that her head was relieved; and Alice rallied herself continually to sympathize in her joy.

About noon, a carriage drove up to the door, from which the expected and devoted twain alighted, and were welcomed with the affectionate dignity and grace that controlled Aunt Rachel always, and on every occasion. There was no outhurst of rapture—no nervous excitability; but there was the heart-toned salutation, and the feeling grasp of hands—the true eloquence of love! Alice withdrew to an inner apartment, that her presence might not be a restraint on the meeting, where, at the proper time, Aunt Rachel presented her son William, and his friend Wallace. The pleasing alliteration of the names, uttered with the peculiar pathos of that voice, brought a beaming smile to the face of Alice, and her greeting was unaffectedly kind. In William, she saw at once the fulfilment of every noble expectation; but in his friend, she recognised nothing of all her bright imaginings. He was indeed manly in appearance, and not unprepossessing; his manners and conversation proved him to be the accomplished gentleman; but—but—he was not her Wallace! With true good taste, Aunt Rachel sent no scrutinizing glances at the young people, as they conversed; nor did she leave them purposely to entertain each other, but divided her kind attentions with the ease and affability of good breeding. William was full of aneedote and humour, yet never forgetting his inborn and educated refinement; and Wallace made himself highly agreeable even to Alice, who, it was not difficult to see, had made a very different impression on him, from that which he had made on her. It needed not, therefore, the repeated interviews that were afforded them, during the several weeks' visit of Aunt Rachel's guests, for Wallace to become the fervent lover of Alice, or for her to determine that she could only be his friend: nor to the penetrating mind of the Quakeress was any watchfulness necessary to an understanding of the different states of these young people's minds. The discovery which she made on the day of their introduction, was the greatest disappointment of her life. She had dwelt so long, and so deeply on the desired connexion, that in her own mind it was consummated before they met; she could not now bring herself to believe that it would never take place—time and further acquaintance would certainly effect what on one side was wanting, and then her own influence—-she was not unoonscious of its power—she flattered herself must prevail in the end. She did not therefore discourage the attentions of Wallace, though Alice did, without coquetry or unkindness; for she felt for her friend and the young man, more than she did for herself, to whom remained the most trying duty of her life—that of communicating to Aunt Rachel the unalterable condition of her mind; and many were her silent petitions to Heaven, for strength to face the trial. Their affection was of that confiding and sympathetic nature, that the thought of marring it, was like plucking out a right eye. Yet she could not perjure herself at the altar—she could not give her hand without her heart; it was contrary to the instincts of her truthful being—it was in opposition to all the teachings of her spiritual guide. She resolved to throw herself on the affection of Aunt Rachel —to tell her that if she loved at all, it was— not Wallace!

On a June morning, without a cloud—a very Sabbath of nature, when not a breeze moved perceptibly the forest leaves, when even the birds seemed to sing in an undertone, and calm pervaded everything—Alice arose with a quiet in her mind that harmonized with the scene, and resolved to embrace the tranquil hour to lay her inmost heart at the feet of her friend. Tapping gently on the door of her private apartment, the kindly voice she knew So well bade her come in. Aunt Rachel raised her eyes from the sacred volume on her lap to welcome her child, and there was something so touchingly soulful in their expression, that tears rushed to the eyes of Alice, and she threw herself on the bosom of her friend, and

wept aloud, uttering only the words, " Forgive, forgive me!" "Forgive me, my daughter!" was the response, and the twain were one soul!

The following day Aunt Rachel's guests departed, taking with them her almost divine benediction: on her serene brow was visible no trace of the disappointment that had sunk to the very well-spring of her being. Alice cheated herself into the belief that her friend had, after all, suffered less than she had; and when a few days following, she found her sick to her bed with a nervous fever, she only attributed it to grief at parting with her son. Most assiduously did she watch by her pillow, imitating her own quietness in the sick chamber, blessing her with the balm of noiseless ministration, even as she had blessed others. It was long before disease yielded at all to quietude and the best medical aid; and when it did subside, the healthful tone of existence had departed, and she was never again Aunt Rachel, physically or mentally. Her presence no more beautified "the place of the Sanctuary;" nor was her voice lifted up again in harmony with the living truth. The meek flock that she had led "into green pastures and beside the still waters," sat "by Babel's streams," and wept a lost shepherdess; or were scattered on barren mountains, "as sheep without a shopherd."

A succession of misfortunes followed close upon Aunt Rachel's disappointment and illness: her always weak companion, Jeremiah, became imbecile in body and mind; her property "took wings;" and—oh, I weep to tell it!—her William—" the only son of his mother, and she" more than "a widow"—was taken from her by relentless death. She retired to her farm-house, the shadow of her former self —one, from whom the glory once departed, could return no more! Yet she never complained; nor ceased to exert every faculty {o the utmost, to bear, without breaking, her load of calamity; but the burden proved heavier than even she could bear. Just at this time too, when Alice longed more than ever to stay by and comfort her friend, her father suddenly ascertained that the climate of his country residence did not agree with his health, and determined to go south. This was breaking the last link that bound Aunt Rachel to earth, and like tearing out the heartstrings from poor Alice's bosom. Their parting is not to be described!

Alice's letters were the chief earthly consolation of Aunt Rachel during the six months that followed, and they revealed to her, what the timid girl had never dared to speak, the first meeting of two heaven-matched lovers in her father's woodland—their warmer meeting at the sunny south, and that the stranger of the wood, had become to her—

"The fair fulfilment of her poesy,
When her young heart first yearned for sympathy I"

* # * *

In "a dim religious" twilight of October, lay the almost sainted Quakeress, on a bed whose pillows and covering of stainless white, not only spoke the purity of her character and sect, but reminded the beholder of the "linen clean and white, which was the righteousness of the saints" in the beatific vision. Her moments were ebbing away as rapidly, as silently, as fall the sands of the hour-glass; yet her spiritual sight was growing "brighter and brighter unto the perfect day."

"Hear'st thou wheels approaching, faithful nurse?" said the voice that had been silent for hours, with a tone of intense interest.

"Tea," was the reply, "and now they have stopped at thy door!"

"It is she! It is they! Bid them hasten!" was spoken, with the assurance of answered prayer, by the dying saint. Softly moved the door, yet the light step on its threshold had now the weight of sorrow in its tread—felt, rather than heard—as it advanced to the bedside.

"Aunt Rachel!" and "It is Mom .'"were the simultaneous words, followed by tears that warm and fast mingled with the cold drops that circled the brow of the dying.

"I have come for thy last embrace—for thy departing blessing on us, who will stand as one by thy sacred grave!"

"My daughter, I have seen yc together in my visions—it is well—the spirit suys amen to the bride!"

They knelt, hand in hand, at her sign—the already cold palm was laid on that "united head"—silence brooded over the scene, and with that unuttered but deep-felt blessing, passed imperceptibly a spotless spirit to the realms of Peace.

THISBE.

BY MISS ALICE CAREY.

Sunset's pale arrow* shivering near and far!—

A little gray bird on an oaken tree
Poaring its tender plaint, and eve's lone star

Resting its silver rim upon the sea!

In dismallest abandonment she lies—
The undone Thisbo, witless of the night,

Looking the sweet time from her mournful eyes,
With her thin fingers, a most piteous sight.

Like violet? white in hollow meadow-ground,
ShutTrom the broad and garish eye of day,

So 'neath her soft arms, clasped, interwound,
The milky beauty of her bosom lay.

O'er her sweet cheek the sprouting grasses lean,
And the round moon's gray, melancholy light

Creeps thro' the darkness, all unfelt, unseen.
And folds her tender limbs from the chill night.

Besldo her on the hill the Twilight lies,
Twisting her pallid hands with the bright hair

That trembles in the light of her clear eyes,
Like strings of daffodils in the blue air.

And the dim mate of silence, newly born.
Stolen softly from tho satyr-haunted grove,

Stoops o'or expiring day, like maiden lorn
Strewing pale blossoms o'er her murdrred love.

Pressing your cold hands over rushy springs,
And making your chaste beds in beaded dew,

About her, Nereides, draw your magic rings,
And wreath her golden-budded hopes anew.

For by tho tumult of thick-coming sighs.
The aspect wan that hath no mortal name,

I know the wilful god of the blind eycs
Hath sped a love-shaft with too true an aim.

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THE MOUNT OF ASCENSION.

BY THE REV. J. P. DOBBIN, D.D.
(Seo Engraving.)

For thirty-six hours, from three o'clock on ] Friday afternoon until the following Sunday morning, the most painful suspense and the intensest anxiety pervaded the city of Jerusalem; for, during these thirty-six hours the Lord of Life and Glory was in the grave. Hope and fear agitated the hearts of his enemies, for they had witnessed his miraculous powers when alive, and remembered his declaration, that in three days he would rise again from the dead, if they should slay him. Confidence and doubt alternately swayed the minds of his few faithful disciples as they communed concerning the Lord Jesus, and his promises to them that he would rise from the dead. If one might ask for what the Divine Providence has been pleased to withhold, I feel strongly inclined to wish that a full and faithful record of these conversations of the disciples had been given to the world. It seems to me that they would have been the most beautiful and convincing evidence of the truth of the sacred story. This is evident from the naturalness of so much of these conversations as has been preserved to us. Who can read the following between two of the disciples, and their risen, but unapprehended Master, without feeling that the record is true 1 It is so natural, so touching, so beautiful, that we are satisfied that it must have sprung from the midst of the scene and circumstances alleged. The conversation took place on the first day of the week, i. c., on our Sunday; the day on which our Saviour rose from the dead.

"And behold two of them went that same day to a village called Emmaus, which was from Jerusalem threescore furlongs. And they talked together of all these things which had happened. And it came to pass that while they communed and reasoned together, Jesus himself drew near and walked with them. But their eyes were holden that they should not know him. And he said unto them, What mannor of communications are these that ye have one with another, as ye walk and are sad? And one of them whose name was Cleophas, answering, said mnto him, Art thou only a stranger in Jerusalem, and hast not known the things which are come to pass there in these days 1 And he said unto them, What things? And they said unto him, Concerning Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people: and how the chief

priests and our rulers delivered him to be condemned to death, and have crucified him. But we trusted it had been he who should have redeemed Israel: and besides all this, to-day is the third day since these things were done. Yea, and certain women also of our company made us astonished, which were early at the sepulchre; and when they found not his body they came saying, that they had seen a vision of angels which said that he was alive. And certain of them which were with us went to the sepulchre, and found it even as the women had said; but him they saw not. Then He said unto them, 0 fools, and slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have spoken! Ought not Christ to have suffered these things, and to enter into his glory? And beginning at Moses and all the prophets, he expounded unto them in all the Scriptures the things concerning himself. And they drew nigh unto the village whither they went, and he made as if he would have gone further. But they constrained him, saying, Abide with us; for it is toward evening and the day is far spent. And he went in to tarry with them. And it came to pass as he sat at meat with them that he took bread and blessed it, and brake and gave to them. And their eyes were opened and they knew him, and he vanished out of their sight. And they said one to another, Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked with us by the way, and while he opened to us the Scriptures? And they rose up and returned to Jerusalem, and found the eleven gathered together, and them that were with them, saying, The Lord is risen indeed, and hath appeared to Simon. And they told what things were done in the way, and how he was known of them in breaking of bread." (Luke, xxiv.)

Granting the previous promises of our Lord concerning his resurrection, and their accomplishment on the third day, and the excursion of the disciples to Emmaus, could anything be more natural, more truthful than the preceding conversation; and the immediate return of the disciples to Jerusalem, upon discovering their Lord alive? This is a specimen of one kind of internal evidence of Christianity which commends itself directly to the conscience and the heart.

It was yet forty days to the time of his ascension, during which period he appeared

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