At this moment he started and turned his head suddenly. "What do I hear? but no, I am mistaken; it is impossible." What disturbed him thus was a trifle to be sure, and none but a father's ear would have caught so slight a sound. It seemed to Jodocus that through the wall he heard his daughter cough. For a moment he remained motionless, holding his breath, listening with his eyes turned towards the ceiling, and then he thought he heard her cough again. "Yes," said he, "that is the way her mother began; my child is sick; I am undone."

Trembling, he ran up the little staircase that led to her room, and leaned his ear against the door- a perfect stillness. His face grew calm. "The truth is," said he, "I am asleep now-it is that abominable dream that pursues me." He came down two steps, but suddenly stopped. This time there was no doubt- it was Margaret coughing. Jodocus softly entered the room, shading the light with his hand — he found his daughter asleep, and stood looking at her with mingled love and anxiety One would have called her a sleeping angel, smiling at Heaven in her dreams. Soft blonde hair fell on the most beautiful face, and in her regular features were seen indications of a too precocious intellect, and perhaps, alas, the germ of a constitutional malady. At times it seemed that Margaret was near waking; she trembled, she coughed, her cheeks turned purple, and good Jodocus, bending over her with feverish anxiety, felt himself ready to faint. But soon calmness returned to the sweet face, and Jodocus sitting near Margaret, folded his hands, and seemed to pray for her life.

Is there a holy balm in the love of a father? I know not: but Margaret's sleep soon became tranquil, and after an hour, the poor bookseller retired to his own room, less anxious, but ill at ease. That happiness which seemed so substantial, that fortune with which he would endow his child, had all disappeared. Now he only saw his first love, his wife, as beautiful as Margaret, but pale, emaciated, dying; now he only saw his daughter taken away in her flower, as her mother had been; it was death for all that

he loved, and for himself solitude and despair.

Too agitated to sleep, Jodocus took from his bedside, a great black book, with copper clasps. It was the Bible which had been given him on his wedding-day. He turned to the first leaf and read,

"Jodocus and Helena married April 15, 1839.

"Margaret born Nov. 20, 1841.
"Helena died Dec. 20, 1841."

Then Jodocus, opening the holy book at random, his eye fell upon the ninth chapter of St. Mark, at the following verses:

"And he took a child and set him in the midst of them, and when he had taken him in his arms, he saidunto them,

"Whosoever shall receive one of these little ones in my name, receiveth me; and whosoever shall receive me, receiveth not me, but him that sent me.'

Jodocus shut the book with a sigh, then he walked to the window - the snow glittered in the moonlight, and the flakes flew about in the wind. "Heavens," said he, "how wretched are the poor in such weather, and how wrong we are to forget them!"

He lay down full of anxiety, and dissatisfied with himself, but fatigue soon closed his eyes. His slumber was agitated, and Margaret's image constantly returned to him under every aspect. He saw again the little wretched chamber, but now the beggar child lying upon the pallet was his Margaret, feverish, burning, near to death.

Near Margaret stood a woman, a shadow clothed in white; it was Helena, the mother, come to receive the soul of her child. "It was your wish," she said to Jodocus, with a look full of pity. "There is on high a law of eternal justice, which attaches the life of the rich to that of the poor. Every one of these unfortunates whom you scorn, carries with him at death the soul of some happy one. The little beggar, that a guinea would have saved died to-night; it is the turn of our child."

While Helena spoke, Margaret wan and pallid, extended her arms as if to fly away with her.

"My child, cried Jodocus, in tears, you must not leave me so; I will—” "What is the matter, my good father?" said a sweet voice, which quickly waked him from his dream. "Are you sick, that you are in bed at this hour?"

"Is it you, Margaret?" cried the poor father, seizing his daughter with both hands, and pressing her to his heart. "Is it you, my child? There is nothing the matter with you, then? You are not sick, and the guinea, where is that?

Why, father," said Margaret, becoming alarmed, "I have spent it as you allowed me to do."

"Already! and how did you spend

it?"

"You will soon know, there is a little mystery about it. But come; breakfast is waiting."

Jodocus rose, more disturbed than ever, and went down stairs. At the breakfasttable, when Margaret, as usual, brought him a cup of coffee which she had prepared herself, and which he never received except from her hand, the good man for the first time refused it, and said, with a sigh, Margaret, what did you do with your guinea?"

Then there came forward from behind Margaret, a woman clothed in black, as Jodocus had seen in his dream, who, trembling, seized the hand of the astonished bookseller.

surprise; she had never thought of suicide; but yet how can you doubt the sanity of a man who gives you three guineas? She kissed the hands of Jodocus and Margaret, and went home full of hope and joy, for they had promised to come and see her that day.

And when they did come, it was with a wagon load; Jodocus threw matrasses and blankets upon the bed; with his own hand he filled the grate with coal, and kindled a fire that flamed to the ceiling. Margaret, on her part, opened a large bundle that she could hardly drag along, and took out sheets, flannels and under garments. She herself washed and dressed the sick girl, put warm, woollen stockings upon her, and I know not how many petticoats. But to crown the whole, the physician of Jodocus, who accompanied them, examined the child, and found no other sickness than cold and hunger—a malady incurable to the poor, but which the rich can always cure. The mother wept for joy when she looked at her little daughter who would not leave Margaret and Jodocus did like the mother. Three hours passed away-three hours, in which, for the first time, Blackstone and Britton remained neglected in their solitude; and finally, Margaret was obliged to fairly pull him from this room which now contained two happy hearts.

When he reached home, Jodocus took his daughter upon his knee. "Henceforth," said he, "you shall be my almsgiver. I am so busy that I do not think enough of the poor; but you understand all this so well, that it shall be your charge. I will be your banker, and have no fear of ruining me. I now understand the meaning of an old proverb, too long an enigma to me—

"Who shuts his hand, has lost his gold, Who opens it, has it twice told."

Even if you should lose your dowry, and never marry a minister, God will reward us in another way,

We find self-made men very often, but self-unmade ones a great deal oftener.

THE WANDERER.

BY MRS. S. M. PERKINS.

CHAPTER I.

Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. Three summers since, I travelled in the central and southern part of the Empire State, in the glorious month of June. At the close of a fine day, I rode with an elderly friend through the principal streets of a thriving village, not a score of miles from Otsego Lake, at the foot of which rests the lovely village rendered famous by the pen of Cooper, the American novelist, of whose fame the people there are so justly proud. My friend was pointing out to me the various objects of interest, when we came suddenly upon a most charming residence. The house was a brown Gothic, with piazza extending on three sides, surrounded by rare trees, shrubbery, and flowers. A little at the right was an artificial pond of water, with a fountain playing in the midst, and beautiful swans swimming on the surface. The parlor windows were open, and music from the piano-forte, floated out upon the evening air. I bade the driver slacken his pace, for I was sorry to leave a scene of so much loveliness. The garden of Eden could not have been fairer.

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'What a beautiful place!" I exclaimed, "how happy must those people be to possess so much loveliness!"

"Happy!" replied my companion, with a slight curl of the lip, "I have known few persons who have had more sorrow. Look the world over, and you will find the trail of the serpent in the fairest and best of homes.'

“Please tell me all about these people, there is time enough now, as we have yet several miles to ride."

He complied with my request, and I will give the substance of the story, with the hope that it may interest others as it did me.

When the Blairs came to this village, and built that house a quarter of a century ago, they seemed as happy a pair as one often sees. They were wealthy, educated, and had a certain haughtiness of manner, which we sometimes see in persons of

refined tastes, accustomed to good society. Mrs. Blair, in particular, was frequently called proud by our villagers. She dressed in faultless style, knowing prefigure, and her good looks were a frequent cisely what was most becoming to her fine theme of comment. Gentlemen called her handsome. Ladies did not, which is not surprising, as they seldom acknowledge the gift of beauty in their peers. Were Powers' Greek Slave a living, breathing woman, her sex would criticise her beauty.

They were persons of decided influence in the place, and that influence was not, in the main, injurious.

At length a son was born in that house, -an event which was hailed with great rejoicing. The rich have many friends, and numerous were the congratulations the parents received, and costly the presents for the child. He drank from silver cups, and his baptismal bowl was of the purest gold. Each pleasant morning, a servant was seen drawing out the child in a baby-carriage lined with white satin, fit for a young prince. But neither the love so freely bestowed, nor earthly gifts, could retain the little spirit from its heavenly home. Just as he began to murmur the names of his parents, he sickened and died. Then went up a wail of anguish from the rich man's home, and friends came in throngs to comfort mourning hearts. Those parents could not feel reconciled at God's dealings with them, and shut up their hearts from consoling reflections. Two years passed, and another child was given them, but, like the others, tarried only long enough to learn a little of earthly speech, and then went home to the Father.

Three times those parents stood by the open grave of an only son. Costly monuments tell where they sleep in the village Cemetery; the choicest flowers blossom there, watered during many years by a mother's tears.

It was a great grief, yet these proud spirits bowed not yet to the chastening rod. The world seen through a mourning veil was changed, yet still attractive. The syren song of pleasure still lured them along, the glitter of wealth still fascinated them, and the voice of flattery,

letters in the library, and Mrs. Blair was out among her flowers, giving directions to the gardener. The breakfast bell rang, and they left their work for the dining room. A few moments they waited for Eugene, when Mrs. Blair called a ser

vant.

"Go, Bridget, and ring the bell at Eugene's door."

Again they waited until Mr. Blair was getting impatient.

"He may be unwell this morning," said the mother.

Mr. Blair went up to his room, and found the bed undisturbed, a few articles of clothing gone, and all else as usual. The truth flashed upon his mind, and he called to his wife from the stair-case. She went eagerly there, and together they passed into the empty room.

“Our boy has gone, he has run away," said the father.

One piercing shriek from the mother, and she sank fainting to the floor. Could Eugene have looked in upon that scene of sorrow that morning, he would have repented of his folly in leaving such a home, and dishonoring those parents. The poor mother's heart seemed broken. There is no sorrow like unto mine, she had said as she laid each of her fair chil dren in the grave, but now she experienced a greater. Gone, gone, not to Him the loving Father, but to be led in the paths of the destroyer, to feed on the husks of sin and dissipation. How much rather would she have laid him, in his boyish beauty, to his last sleep beside his young brothers. She wondered now that she had so mourned when death came for her sweet little ones. In her grief she blessed God that he early took them in their innocence and purity, from such a world of trial. The father too, strong man that he was, wept like a child, that theirs was again a childless home, and a house of mourning. It was many weeks before Mrs. Blair left her room, and when again she came forth, it was no longer the gay, the attractive, the fashionable woman of the world. This grief wrought a great change in her whole life. Those weeks of lonely illness and sorrow, gave her time for self-examination and

self-renunciation. Earnestly she prayed that her great suffering might not be in vain; that it might have its appointed mission, in showing her plainly the path of duty. In humility she studied the word of God, and she found a meaning in its pages undiscerned before. Unreservedly she consecrated her time, her talents, her whole heart to God, trusting in him, till her language was like an ancient saint's, "though he slay me, yet will I trust in him." "Come unto me all ye that labor, and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest," was a precious promise, and by faith in Christ, she found peace, a calm and holy peace, such as God giveth to his beloved. All nature seemed changed. The tiny birds, the smiling flowers, the twinkling stars, and flowing streamlets, all had a voice of praise to God, and her own bereaved heart was in unison with their melody. Her husband loved her before, but now he reverenced her, as he saw the great good she accomplished, in her walks of usefulness among the poor, in ministering to sorrow, and in comforting mourning hearts.

CHAPTER III.

THE SAILOR BOY.

Joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that re

penteth.

Shall we follow Eugene in his wanderings from his father's house? It is the same old story of many another youth who has left a good home for life upon the great deep. It is well I suppose, that some are born with a propensity for the sea; else where would come the supply of luxuries for our table, and many of our articles of common use. But God hasten the time, when such as go down to the sea in ships, are better men, and have a better influence upon the who are young, entrusted to their care, for weeks and months together. Engene was first pleas ed with the novelty of his situation, then shocked at the profanity and intemperance of those around him. They called him green that he neither smoked, nor drank, nor swore. At first he warded off their ridicule with firmness, and turned from these things with loathing. He gradually