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his brother's child, had closed his words of sympathy and comfort, the stricken father rose and said: "When I have sought to minister to your consolation in the times of your affliction, weeping with you over your dying children, you have often said to me that I knew nothing of the anguish, and could not sympathize with you in your loss. I feel it now. I never did before." And then he pointed them to the sources of comfort that God was opening to his soul, and asked them to come to the fountain and drink. house in which we were then assembled stood on a hill-side, overlooking a beautiful river, and, on the other side of it, "sweet fields stood drest in living green." The pastor went on to say-and there was a strange power and beauty, too, in the words as they fell from his lips in the midst of tears-" Often, as I have stood on the borders of this stream, and looked over to the fair fields on the other shore, I have felt but little interest in the people or the place in full view before me. The river separates me from them, and my thoughts and affections were here. But a few months ago, one of my children moved across to the other side, and took up his residence there. Since that time, my heart has been

there also. In the morning, when I rise and look out toward the east, I think of my child who is over there, and again and again through the day I think of him, and the other side of the river is always in my thoughts with the child who is gone there to dwell. And now, since another of my children has crossed the river of death, and has gone to dwell on the other side, my heart is drawn out toward heaven and the inhabitants of heaven as it was never drawn before. I supposed that heaven was dear to me; that my Father was there, and my friends were there, and that I had a great interest in heaven, but I had no child there! Now I have; and I never think and never shall think of heaven, but with the memory of that dear child who is to be among its inhabitants for ever."

It was a beautiful and impressive illustration. The heart of the father was soothed by thoughts like these. He loved to look away to heaven, and think of it as the abode of his child, a seraph now, happier far than he could be in this vale of tears, and happier than he would ever have been, had he lived to grow up to manhood, to die in sin.

The Rev. Dr. Pye was called to part with

two children, a son and a daughter. A few days afterwards, he wrote a letter as if it had come from the girl just after she had ceased to breathe, and a little before her brother's death. Here is an extract from the letter which he supposes his child to write :

"It was he who made us that called us away, and we cheerfully obeyed the summons; and I must now tell you, though you already know it, that he expects from you not only that you meekly and calmly submit to such a seemingly severe dispensation of his providence, but that you also rejoice with me in it, because it is the will and pleasure of our divine Father. I, young as I was, am now an inhabitant of heaven, and already see the beauty and harmony of that little chain of events which related to my short abode in your world, and even the manner of my leaving it; and when you see the things as they really are, and not as they now appear, you will confess and adore the divine goodness, even in taking us so soon from your embraces.

"Ask not why it has pleased God so early to remove us; we sufficiently answered the great end of our being if, while living, at the same time that we gave you pleasure, you

were disposed to lead us, by your examples and precepts, into the paths of virtue and religion; and if now, by the loss of us, you become examples of patience and submission to the divine will.

"Let, therefore, all the little incidents in our past lives, the remembrance of which is too apt to renew your sorrow, be so many occasions of your joy, inasmuch as they may recall the pleasant ideas you once delighted in; and let the dismaying and melancholy remembrance of our sickness and early death be changed into cheering and bright ideas of what we now enjoy, and what you, I hope, will one day see us in possession of."

There was something very comforting in this thought, of the child departed sending back a message to the mourning parent. I doubt not that children in heaven are astonished, if they know that their parents here, on the earth, are grieving on their account. "If our parents only knew what we have gained, how soon they would dry their tears!"

The lady of Sir Stamford Raffles, in India, was overwhelmed with grief for the loss of a favorite child, unable to bear the sight of her other children, unable to bear even the light

of day. She was lying upon her couch, with a feeling of desolation that was fast growing into despair, when she was addressed by a poor, ignorant woman, one of the natives, who had been employed in the nursery: "I am come," said the servant, "because you have been here many days shut up in a dark room, and no one dares to come near you. Are you not ashamed to grieve in this manner, when you ought to be thanking God for having given you the most beautiful child that ever was seen? Did any one ever see him or speak of him without admiring him? And, instead of letting this child continue in this world till he should be worn out with trouble and sorrow, has not God taken him to heaven in all his beauty? What would you have more? For shame! leave off weeping, and let me open a window."

It is not always wise to bid a mourner "leave off weeping." Tears are sometimes good for the soul. That grief is very bitter which cannot find tears. I have often wished that they would come, and relieve this dry and dreadful pressure on the heart. But if we do not cease to weep, by all means let us open the window. Let us have the light of God's countenance shining upon us like the