earnest call of" Willie! dear Willie!" he answered not by a look, a word, or motion.

The night passed heavily. The first sound that greeted my ears in the morning, as I left my room, was the hoarse, suffocating breathing of the child. It sounded through the house, fearfully distinct, from the half-opened door of his chamber.

Another day passed, and another night, and then we were called to see him die. How my heart beats with a troubled, unequal motion, even now, while I recall that scene. His throat had become so swollen, that to breathe was almost impossible. He lay panting and gasping before us, and we could not even smooth his passage to the grave. The mother supported the head of her darling, and the father stood looking on apparently unmoved, but there was a tempest of feeling subdued, not stilled, in his bosom. The former had ceased to weep. Her sorrow was too profound to allow of a tearful relief.

The breathing of the little sufferer grew quicker and fainter, but he still labored fearfully. Each respiration convulsed his frame and distorted his features. Even to the last gasp, the struggle was painful. But when the spirit disengaged itself from the body, how calm, how still, how lovely was he in death! It was like a Sabbath rest after a week of toil and pain.

Bowed down in spirit we stole away from the chamber of death. What had we done that our delight was taken away, and our hearts stricken with sorrow! How can I attempt to describe the agony of the mother's heart! It cannot be told. It was known only to Him who sustained her in her affliction, and in a voice of indescribable sweetness, whispering even from the inner temple of her spirit, said, "He is not dead, but sleepeth." Far more touching is the silent, subdued, resigned grief of a Christian mother, than the transports of one whose sorrow looks not out from self. Never shall I forget when Mrs. H- bent over the coffin of her dear little Willie and kissed his cold forehead, lips and cheeks for the last time. Large drops were falling upon

the pale insensible face, but no sound passed the mother's lips. Ah, how many dear hopes did that coffin lid enclose, when it passed over the face of her loved and lovely one forever!

Days, weeks, months did not take away the loneliness from that house. I never passed its threshold, that I did not miss something. My ear listened for a well known voice, but the sound never more fell sweetly upon it. Feeling thus myself, how often did I pity the bereaved parents; but they bore their loss with Christian patience, looking beyond the veil of death, and seeing, by an eye of faith, their little one in the company of celestial angels.

HYMN FOR MOTHERS.

EY MRS. E. OAKES SMITH.

Author of Sinless Child."

LORD, not as she, whose matron pride
Her noble sons would seat
On either hand of Judah's throne,
Pressed by thy holy feet-
Oh! not for earthly power and pomp
We meekly bend the knee-
Whate'er our children's varied lot

We leave them, Lord, with thee.

In every weak and tempted hour,
Oh! may thy spirit, strong,

Be there to fix the firm resolve

And shield them from the wrong—

If, like our blessed master, they

By perils fierce be driven,

Do thou but guide the struggling barque, 'T will anchor safe in Heaven.

ALICE.

A STORY OF THE REVOLUTION.

BY CHAS. J. PETERSON.

CHAPTER I.

"Ruffian forego."-Two Gentlemen of Verona.

"HELP, help," cried a female voice, startling the echos of the wild, mountain road, in one of the southern states.

Two individuals on horseback were traversing the rugged highway, when this sudden cry broke the silence. One was an officer, attired in the continental uniform: tall and athletic in person, and with a countenace strikingly noble. He had been riding leisurely along, but at the cry he drew in his rein and turned to his companion, who was a man of Herculean proportions, considerably his senior, and wore the uniform of a private in the American army.

"What can be the matter, Simpson?" said the officer. "The sound came from those woods to the left, and the voice was that of a woman."

"It's nothing, Captain Hereward," replied his companion, with a smile at his master's alarm. Nothing, at any rate, but some drunken rascal beating his wife or darter. Them things are common in these parts. We 'd better push on and leave 'em to settle it among themselves, for I'm thinking, since last night's