evening, but I have promised to sit with Mrs. L., who is very low, to-night, and, as the best thing to chcer you, I have ordered a wood fire in the library; it will not seem so cold and lonely as this large, unsocial room; and now go, my dear, and see if you can't get ruddy by its warmth, for you are pale to-day; I fear you are getting homesick." Ellen repaired to the library, scarcely sorry, in her present state of mind, that she must necessarily spend the evening alone. As she sat musingly watching the fitful shadows of the firelight, the past came up in review before her, and, retracing life's pathway, she went back to childhood's years. Again she stood by that mother, for whose love she had never ceased to yearn through all her orphan pilgrimage; again she wet her hands pulling the long lily stems, and gathered bright cardinal flowers and fringed gentian from the river's bank. "O, my mother, would that I could lay my head on thy bosom, as in those days of careless childhood!" was her mental exclamation, with fast-flowing tears. If repose and trust in maternal affection is ever priceless to a daughter's heart, it is when love's first distant whisper touches the electric chain of thought and feeling, and half joyous, half afraid, new and contending emotions struggle for mastery there. Tears brought their accustomed relief, and, as Ellen became calm, she sought to commit her way more entirely to her heavenly Parent, and to repose with more confidence in his care and love. While thus engaged, her meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Maysville, whose return had not been anticipated until a late hour.

"Well, this is really pleasant," said he; "the air without has a wintry chill to-night. I think, Miss Lester, you have been planning an agreeable surprise for my mother."

"Oh, no! it was her kind arrangement to cheer me, during her absence," said Ellen, a little embarrassed.

"Well, it matters little by whom the plan was designed, it is a good one, and these glowing embers speak well for its execution. I trust you will permit me to share its comforts." Ellen quietly assented. Mr. M. perceived her constraint, and, with delicate tact, gave the conversation a general turn, that she might regain her composure, which his abrupt entrance had disturbed.

"I have often thought it a question worthy the attention of the curious and philosophizing," said he, "what effect the change from the bright wood-fires, which fifty years ago warmed almost every

hearthstone in New England, to the dusty, gaseous coal, and dark stove heat, which is now almost universal, has had upon the social character of the many, who, during the time, have gathered in its home-circles. A coal-fire may, indeed, impart warmth to the animal system, and keep the northmen at bay, but it is decidedly dull and prosy, in its best forms; while this bright, blazing wood,why, it is the very poetry of comfort!" Ellen smiled at his enthusiasm, and was about to tell him of the huge log-fires she had sometimes seen at the west, which, like the sun, were a source of both light and heat, but for some reason the words died away upon her lips, and she was silent.

"I have, of late, been thinking much of the future," said Mr. M. at length, seating himself beside her; "I have received several communications, inviting me to enter some portion of the great field, and I must not longer delay. And I have, for some time, wished to tell you how intimately you are associated with all my plans."

Ellen bowed her head, and spoke not, but she listened, while, in low tones, he told her his love, his hopes, and mingled fears, lest he might not win the prize he sought. "As to the question where I shall go," he said, "I have made it a subject of prayerful consideration; and now, dear Ellen, if you will permit me to return with you to your far-off home, we will seek some part of the vineyard of the Lord, and together spend and be spent in his service."

"And your mother?" murmured Ellen, "to whose influence, with God's blessing, I am indebted for all that I am, worthy the interest of any one -"

"Will be yours, and go with us cheerfully wherever we may go," was the reply. Ellen's cheek was not pale when Mrs. M. returned, and her eye, if a little tearful, was as bright as an April sun, when the rain is passing by. We will only add that the joy which then filled her heart was but as the first-fruits gathered from affection's tree. Set in a soil of purity and truth, its roots struck deep, and its branch never became dry. When summer flowers and autumn hues had faded, its leaves grew greener amid winter's age, and its lengthening shadows were also broad and full. Neither looking for perfection in the other, but each seeking its attainment in themselves, in respect to all the duties of their mutual relation, love became to them a disciplinary process, a purifying principle, as well as a pure enjoyment, and, from its nature, could not die.

They sin who tell us love can die,
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly, these passions of the earth,
They perish where they have their birth;
But love is indestructible,

Its holy flame forever burneth;

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth;
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,

At times deceived, at times oppressed,

It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest.

It soweth here with toil and care,

But the harvest time of love is there."

THE DYING YEAR.

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

VOICE of the Dying Year! I hear thy moan,
Like some spent breaker of the distant sea,
Chafing the fretted rock. Is this the end
Of thy fresh, morning music, gushing out,
In promises of hope? Have the bright flush

Of Spring's young beauty, crowned with budding flowers,
The passion-vow of summer, and the pledge

Of faithful, fruitful Autumn, come to this?

I see thy youngling moon go down the west,

The midnight clock gives warning, and its stroke

Must be thy death-knell. Is that quivering gasp
The last sad utterance of thine agony?

I see thy clay-cold fingers strive to clasp

Some prop,-in vain!

And so, thou art no more,

No more! Thy rest is with oblivious years
Beyond the flood. Yet when the trump shall sound,
Blown by the strong archangel, thou shalt wake
From the dim sleep of ages. When the tombs
That lock their slumbering tenants cleave in twain,
Thou shalt come forth. Yea, thou shalt rise again,
And I shall look upon thee, when the dead
Stand before God. But come not murmuring forth,
Unwillingly, like Samuel's summoned ghost,
To daunt me at the judgment. No! be kind,
Be pitiful, bear witness tenderly;

And if thou hast a dread account for me,

Go, dip thy dark scroll in redeeming blood.

MATERNAL INFLUENCE.

BY MRS. S. P. ELDRIDGE.

"I'll tell mother," said a sobbing little one, as a rude boy jostled her off the sidewalk. "I'll tell my mother." What a world of consolation was implied in that short sentence! The blow itself was trifling, but the feelings were hurt, the little affectionate spirit was wounded. But there was a balm at home. It mattered not how many cares and anxieties pressed upon the mother; her child knew the fount of sympathy was never dry. The ready ear, the pitying tone, the smile of welcome never failed. What an angel's mission is a mother's! Every word, look and gesture tell for eternity. To balance nicely the scales of justice, to mete out fitting reward or punishment for each little expectant, to encourage the drooping and timid, check the bold and presuming, to suppress the hasty word which the overtasked spirit sends to the lip at some daring outbreak of disobedience; to rule one's own spirit, and wear an unruffled brow in the midst of life's conflict, "who is sufficient for these things?" Not the prayerless mother. Not she, who, allured by dress, fashion, and vanity, leaves her precious charge to the care of servants, from whom the frightful nursery-tale or indelicate allusion is often heard, leaving a stain on the pure young mind which after years may never efface. Not she, who secures obedience by bribes, or breaks a promise to trusting childhood; nor yet she, who, arraying her favorite Joseph in his "coat of many colors,' sows the seeds of discord and envy among brethren; not she, who preaches one thing with the lip, and another with the life; more than all, not the prayerless mother!

"My strength is sufficient for thee." Amid all these responsibilities, from which an angel might, trembling, shrink, lean thou on this staff of promise, which shall never prove to thee a broken reed. Thou hast thy hours of sadness and discouragement. Day after day, thou walkest the same path, performing the same duties, in the midst of thy restless unquiet ones. "Tares" begin to multiply; the good seed delays its springing; faith and hope falter. There is a laurel for the hero; there is praise for the conqueror; there are ringing plaudits for great and noble deeds; but who marks

the declining strength and the flagging step of the patient, overburdened, overtasked mother? Cheer thee! an approving eye resteth on thee; a recording pen hath noted that silent victory over thine own spirit, that temptation to forsake thy duties or perform them lightly. These, thy jewels, though slow in the process of setting, shall yet sparkle in thy crown. Then, how light thy trials here! Then, what joy to say, "Behold, I and the children whom thou hast given me!" It may be, the Great Reaper hath already cut down thy fairest flowers, the children of thy love, who had just begun, with their smiles, and loving words, and grateful care, to repay thee for thy wakeful nights and toilsome days, and they are hidden from thy sight. Still, cheer thee, in thy desolate home. If thou hast submissively laid thy hand upon thy mouth, if, smiling through thy tears, thou hast yielded unmurmuringly to the Giver what was only loaned thee, then know that what thou hast "sown in tears, thou shalt reap in joy." "Jesus wept." He knoweth what it cost thee, and great shall be thy reward in heaven.

THE TOILET.

BY MISS ELIZA PAINE.

LET the Bible be thy looking-glass; the meekness and humility of Jesus thy attire; the wisdom of the Lord the crown of thy head, and the light of his countenance the joy of thine own; a word fitly spoken the health of thy lips; the righteousness of faith thy robe; the salvation of the Gospel thy shield of defence; truth thy beautiful girdle; the precepts of the Lord the sandals of thy feet.

Now let the graces of the Spirit be thine ornaments; love and peace the gems to sparkle amid thy hair; long-suffering and gentleness, goodness and temperance, the chain about thy neck; the pear! of great price, the diadem upon thy breast; the Saviour's last command the bracelet on thine arm; and charity, which is the bond of perfectness, its clasp.

Yet stay. Snatch up that golden key, and wear it closely pressed unto thine heart. It is prayer, the key to unlock the day, the key to lock out the night.

Now art thou clad in thy beautiful garments. Go forth, and, verily, thou shalt have praise in the gates of the King's Heavenly

Palace.