Many months passed away, and in the constant intercourse I held with my owner, and the services in which I was employed by him and with him when released from business and on the Lord's day, a new and happy era had arrived in my history. With him I visited the abodes of poverty and vice, took part in the instruction of the ignorant and of those who were out of the way, and strengthened the faith of the weak and halting. Not unfrequently did I, in his hand, become "the sword of the Spirit,” wielded dexterously by him to the cutting asunder the knotted bands of sophistry, and in putting to flight the suggestions of infidelity, which entangled others as they had once entangled his own soul; and by this means did I put to silence the ignorance of foolish men. And in these services of faith and courage in the cause of his Master, Albert Norton received advantage from the intellectual resources of his cultivated mind; so that the carnal wisdom which, unsanctified, might have led him into the outer darkness of unbelief, being sanctified by the Spirit of grace and wisdom, gave dexterity and skill in the holy warfare in which, at such times, my owner acquitted himself courageously, enduring "hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ."

The history of my owner in connexion with me need not be pursued further. His life was not a long one. In the midst of humble employment and usefulness in his Master's service he received

the gracious message to depart and be with Christ, leaving behind him his widowed mother and his sister. I was his companion to the last, and he died in peace.

CHAPTER VII.

THE DESERTED ROOM.

TIME rolled away; seasons came and departed; autumn, with its alternate sunshine and gloom; winter, with its chilling blasts; spring, with its returning life, passed over the house of mourning. The room in which, at his mother's house, Albert Norton died was rarely entered; and there I remained silent on a shelf, with several companions, all equally neglected. Around was confusion. It had been Albert's room when he was at home; and everywhere were relics of his mortal existence : his books-packets of written papers-his desktrunks, and other things, were there to remind the living of death and the dead.

It seemed as though the sorrowing mother and sister dreaded to open afresh the wounds of their hearts, by intermeddling with the contents of that room, and thus recalling to memory him who was gone. They sorrowed not indeed as having “no hope;" for the same faith which assured them that

"Jesus died and rose again," gave them also this certain persuasion, that "them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him." Yet did they

sorrow.

But grief such as theirs admits of many alleviations; and time brought these. The chamber door was, at length, thrown open; painful mementoes of the departed were put out of sight, or otherwise disposed of; pleasant ones were retained and arranged; furniture was dusted, a carpet spread on the floor, books re-arranged; a jar of fresh summer flowers was placed at the open window, and daily renewed; and resignation, if not perfect cheerfulness, began to smile around.

From this time that room was a favourite retreat of Grace Norton; and here did she, and sometimes her mother also, pass many hours of pensive thoughtfulness. If together, they sat and worked with their needles, and sometimes talked of Albert, till their eyes overflowed with tears, not entirely of grief. It was not always of Albert, however. They occasionally spoke of another—of Grace's approaching nuptials.

"I wish I were not going so far away, mother; or that you would alter your mind, and take up your abode with us," said Grace, in one of these conversations. "You will feel lonely."

Lonely, perhaps, sometimes, but not alone," replied the mother. "I wish, indeed, that you could be nearer; but the wish is a selfish one.

You will be happy with your husband; and I-I trust I shall not be unhappy with my God ever near me, and his word for my guidance and comfort."

Still, if you would leave this place and go with us?"

The widowed mother shook her head, and smiled. "It is not easy to transplant an old tree, Grace," she said. "I have lived here more than half my lifetime. Here God has blessed me with innumerable mercies, and has seen fit to try me with some sorrows. Here your father lived and died; and here Albert died also. I could not tear myself away without much pain and sorrow. Besides, it is better for husband and wife that no near object of affection should continuously interrupt their oneness of daily intercourse. We shall see each other sometimes, Grace, and think of each other often; but when married, you will have new thoughts and objects, with which even a mother could not interfere."

It was plain from this that the mother and daughter were to be separated by distance, and Grace was soon to bid farewell to the home of her childhood.

Meanwhile, I had been removed from the shelf, and occupied an honourable position on the worktable by the window; and often, when Grace Norton was alone, did she turn to me for encouragement and direction.

The wedding day soon arrived, and then came the painful parting of mother from daughter; but ere this, I had obtained a new owner in the young bride herself. I was put into her hands by her mother on the eve of her departure to her new home.

"It was our dear Albert's Bible, Grace," she said, with a quiet smile but a faltering tongue: "let it be yours now." And thus, henceforthfor a time-I was hers.

I was once more in, or near to, a populous town; for the husband of my new owner was engaged in commerce. Of him I, for some time, saw but little, for on our arrival at my owner's new abode, I was conveyed to her own private sitting-room. Yet could I tell, by unmistakable signs, that Grace Norton had chosen wisely and well; and that while her husband was one who would "live joyfully with the wife whom he loved all the days of the life" which were given them, he had also given heed to the earnest invitation of Divine wisdom— "Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure

in them.'

And grievously do they misapprehend my spirit, or libel my character, who dare to affirm of me that I am a foe to social and domestic happiness,

Eccles. xii. 1.