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There is no God,' the foolish saith, But none, There is no sorrow;'

And nature oft the cry of faith

In bitter need will borrow,

Eyes which the preacher could not school
By wayside graves are raised,
And lips say, 'God be pitiful!'

Who ne'er said, 'God be praised!'
Be pitiful, O God!"

"H

USH, Freddie dear, don't cry. Mamma will come soon. Hark! There's the train now! Hear the whistle? Now, lie down, dear, in your little crib and let Grandma rock you till Mamma comes. Lie down and Grandma will sing to

you

"Mamma will come to her babe in the nest, Silver has faded all out of-"

But the little one's heart was too full of longing for the "dear mamma" who had been away from him so long to be easily soothed. All day she had been gone and now the twilight was gathering and she did not come.

What pain exceeds the yearning of a child for its mother? The little one began to sob and the tender grandmother lifted him in her arms, saying anxiously to herself, "What can detain Melissa? I wonder that she does not hurry home to the child."

But going to the window she tapped on the pane lightly and called cheerily, "Come, Mamma! Hurry to Freddie! Freddie wants Mamma! Come, Mamma, to little Freddie! He's tired waiting-"

The gate clicked and a step came hastily up the walk. The child clapped his hands and screamed with lelight. The tired face of the woman

beamed with expectation, but the door opened and only her husband entered. "Where is Melissa?" inquired she striving to quiet the child who began to sob afresh. I thought I heard the train come in."

"You did," answered her husband, "but Melissa did not come. I went down to meet her and help her with her parcels, but she did not come. She missed the train, no doubt. Poor little fellow! he added, as he glanced at the child. It will seem long to wait until to-morrow."

They seated themselves at the waiting table spread for the evening meal with a place for the absent one and soon the baby's head drooped until it rested on Grandma's bosom, and the little hands hung down in the childish abandon of sleep. Ah, well for him that he could pillow his tired head near so warm a heart, and that loving heart

"We know not what waits us;
God kindly veils our eyes."

Through the night, and storm, and darkness the train thundered on its way. The rain dashed angrily at the windows and at times the lightning revealed the rolling clouds that shot out those angry gleams as vengeful thoughts dart forth from a frowning face.

Within the car all was quiet. Nearly all the passengers were asleep.

One little group consisted of a gentleman, a lady, and a little girl. The child lay curled up on the cushions asleep. ions asleep. The man was saying to his companion, "You are tired and

nervous, now. You will feel differently in the morning when this storm has passed and we are hundreds of miles from those who would have separated us. We shall soon be safe

in our own little home where we will be all in all to each other and in your happiness you will forget the pain of the past. Put it from you now and be happy-with me," he added tenderly.

But she turned her pale face from him and though no sound crossed the compressed lips, the moan in her heart was. "O, my baby! My precious little Fred! When shall I see you again? Will your baby hands never clasp about my neck again, while your soft black eyes look into mine? And O, Mother, what will you think when I never come home to you and my babe? My brothers with dark faces will refuse to hear my name and my father will speak it only when he strives to comfort you, but O, my mother, will you never know how your girl's high spirit grew desperate under her wrongs until she could bear them no longer? Will you not deep in your heart pity and forgive your child? Will it not palliate her wrong -the thought of all she has endured and what could but be her portion in the years to come? Will you not see the wrong of keeping up such a pretense of affection when the last smouldering ember has died out of my heart? O, Mother, Mother, will you not pity and forgive?"

She looked out into the night and an indefinable fear stole over her, a feeling that she was rushing forward into darkness from which she would never emerge, from which she could never return, and she started involuntarily as if to flee, but strong and loving hands detained her and loving words strove to quiet her uneasy conscience, but in a measure only were they successful. She has risked all, she will go on with the rushing train into the darkness and night of life. Though loving words may always fall from the lips near her, and the strong hands be prompted ever to willing service, it will not avail. No earthly friend can enter into the sanctuary of her soul and erase the handwriting

there. She has written it and can never efface it. The man or woman who suffers themselves to deliberately choose wrong, instead of right, has entered upon a course the end of which (when not forsaken) is the end of peace.

"We grow wrong;" says Joseph Cook, "we allow ourselves to crystallize in habits that imply a loss of desire to be holy; and at last, having made up our minds not to love predominately what God loves, and hate what he hates, we are amazed that we have not blessedness. But the universe is not amazed. The nature of things is but another name for the divine nature. God would not be God if there could be blessedness without holiness." . . . As doubtless our readers will have surmised, the traveller in night and darkness was Melissa.

Do you wonder why she was there and what it was from which she then sought to free herself? This is her

story:-

Four years before. against the wishes of the stern, upright brother and the remonstrances of her father and mother, she had married a dashing young man of the village.

Quieter and better men admired her who stood aside, though with sadness, when they saw her make choice of the companionship of Fred Dalton. Friends ventured a few timid suggestions that she would do well to consider fully the significance of the marriage vow. Some reminded her of his fondness for the glass, of the lack of stability in his nature, of family traits not to be desired in a lifelong companion, but all such friendly warnings fell on deaf ears.

He was handsome and gay, her young fancy was captivated, and she thought that through all her life he would defer to her wishes as he did then. That he could not be drawn from her society by his drinking companions she felt sure. Willful, highspirited, she trusted his word and blindly, as countless others have done, made the promises that placed upon her the duty of wifehood, but which, alas, soon became to her the fetters of bondage, for the scales soon fell from her eyes and she was compelled to see the true nature of the man to whom

she had given the affection of her young heart.

He loved her as well as it was in his nature to love, but it was his nature to love Fred Dalton supremely, and so when appetite clamored for drink he went where drink was to be found and stayed as long as he pleased, and if a thought of his lonely young wife came between him and his glass, he put it impatiently away.

And she did not bear it patiently. Indignant words and glances met him on his return home which he received with exasperating indifference times and at other times in a manner that terrified her, for she discovered in him a slow, treacherous anger that never forgot or forgave an insult however much he might have done to bring it upon himself. And these two, unfortunately, were joined together for life. Can anyone wonder that she could not repress a feeling of relief when in the third year of the Civil War he was drafted into the army? She did not think farther than the present quiet and peace she could enjoy with her baby. She had long done much toward the support of the little family with her needle and in various ways, for her husband was no favorite in the village and besides was often out of employment through a contemptible pride that prevented his working at anything but his one trade. She, therefore, did not feel his absence in that way and she had found so little that was enjoyable in his society, and so much that was its opposite that she was hardly to be blamed if she felt a restful quiet when she knew that she and her baby were left alone not to be disturbed at the midnight hours by the home-coming of her husband.

But little did she dream as she stood in her cottage door with her babe in her arms and watched him march away that it would rest with her to say that they should never meet again. She thought of the uncertainties of life, of the dangers of warfare, and tears fell for the wreck of her girlish dreams, but inexperienced, undisciplined as she was, she did not know that the willful, imperious disposition that had led her to become

the wife of Fred Dalton was her bitterest enemy, that it would lead her to defy the opinion of the world, to wound almost to death the hearts that cherished her, and to put forever from her the love of the innocent child she then clasped to her heart.

How important it is in the training of the human will that the parents at times should wisely withhold from their children things that may be greatly desired though injurious in their nature. The great Father in his dealings with the first of our race recognized the fact that the principle of obedience to the law of right and selfdenial when inclination would lead to wrongdoing must be taught to the race to give strength of character and force to the very will that encounters and casts aside evil that it may be submissive to the will of God. God withheld the tree from our first parents and wisely, too, but they cast aside his law and partook of it, and countless millions of their children have walked in the shadow of their error and have learned by bitter experience that "The way of the transgressor is hard." and, by contrast, that the best will is God's will.

But while we may pause to moralize upon this principle of self-denial, Melissa, as she went the daily round of her simple duties, thought little of such things. With quick, springing step, light and buoyant with youth and health, she flitted about the little home her deft hands made invitingly cozy, and despite the daily routine of toil she was contentedly happy in its quiet and peace until-until-O, we fain would cover the shame of it!-until a certain manly form began to linger just a little longer than a neighbor might be allowed to do when he paused at her gate to say a friendly word in passing-until he grew just a little more assured and ventured in to chat a little while with her as she sat in the vine-covered "stoop" in the dusk of the day-until the tempter grew bolder and bolder and twined his silken fetters about them and when Fred's letter came saying he would be home in three weeks, they looked into each other's faces and knew that they wished he would not come.