and saw her no more. But I soon heard of her, for there rose a strange sound in the land, that a Good Spirit had appeared to the widow of Walter Johnstone, had disclosed where her husband's murdered body lay, had enriched her with all his lost wealth, had prayed by her side till the blessed dawn of day, and then vanished with the morning light. I closed my lips on the secret till now; and I reveal it to you, my children, that you may know there is a God who ruleth this world by wise and invisible means, and punisheth the wicked, and cheereth the humble of heart and the lowly minded.

Such was the last sermon of the good John Farley, a man whom I knew and loved. I think I see him now, with his long white hair and his look mild, eloquent, and sagacious. He was a giver of good counsel, a sayer of wise sayings, with wit at will, learning in abundance, and a gift in sarcasm which the wildest dreaded.

PICKABACK;

OR,

MOTHER AND CHILD.

YOUNG mother, may thy spirit long
Retain its joyous light,

Thy step as firm and springy be,

Thy brow as smooth and bright

As now,

e'er cares of womanhood

Have left one dreary trace,

Deprived thee of one youthful charm, Or marred one maiden grace!

And that fair rosy boy! 'tis bliss
Heart-thrilling and divine,

To clasp him in thine arms, and press

His ruddy lips to thine ;

To hear his artless thoughts lisped forth

In music's gentlest tone;

To mark the gaze of his blue eye

Uplifted to thine own.

1

Along the smooth and fragrant turf
To act the courser's part,

And fondly hail the rapturous gush

Of laughter from his heart;-
Yes, these are earth's divinest joys,
Surpassed alone in heaven,—

And shall they die like summer flowers,
And fade like hues of even?

Alas! alas! the brightest morn
May change to darkest day,
And where the early sunshine glowed
Wild tempests hold their way;
Glad voices may grow sorrowful,

And merry eyes be dim,

And grief may lurk in wait for thee,
And wasting pain for him!

'Twere vain-'twere impotent to wish
That Time should stay his wing,
Autumn and Winter must succeed
To Summer and to Spring;

Or fain I'd hope years, withering years,
Might thy pure pleasures spare,
Leave him as artless and as young,

And thee as glad and fair!

N. H.