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Weep not for her; the Saviour's smile of love
Hath beam'd upon her, and she seeth now!
Forgotten now are the regrets and fears,
Which gather'd round her through her darken'd years.

“I shall see in heaven !"
Oh, is not this a cheering thought for me,
Now struggling on through darkness and through strife :
For all around is fraught with mystery,
And strange is the enigma of one's life ;
And oft with feverish longings for the light,
grope my way, and trust that all is right.

“I shall see in heaven,"
How truths which once so widely parted seem'd,
By links invisible to mortal ken
Were intimately join'd ;-how things we deem'd
So adverse to the real good of men,
Were its promoters ;-how from grief and care
God's touch evolved such joys as angels share.

" I shall see in heaven"
The loving and the gentle-hearted friends,
Long the companions of my chequer'd path,
Whose hallow'd memories such enchantment lends
To evening musings by my peaceful hearth.
Oh, when within our Father's house we meet,
How joyfully each other we shall greet !

“ I shall see in heaven"
The Saviour, “whom not having seen,” I love;
And gaze through all eternity on Him,
Enthroned amidst rejoicing saints above ;
Where nought of earth His radiant charms can dim.
Here, sin and sorrow oft His glories hide ;
There, I shall dwell for ever at His side !

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MY FIRST PUPILS. MANY years have passed since the events I am about to record took place, but they are too firmly impressed on my memory for them ever to be forgotten ; and I think some of my young friends may find pleasure, and gain, I trust, some good, from the perusal.

I remember, as well as though it were but yesterday, the day I left my father's house to pay a visit of some weeks to some dear friends residing in the town of Rugeley ; I was just seventeen, and my kind friends knew exactly how to mingle instruction with pleasure, so that even our amusements tended to our improvement.

I had been, with Mrs. Smith and two of her nieces, to a lecture on Music and Singing, and returned home in high spirits, and I entered the drawing-room humming an air which I had heard that evening. Mr. Smith met me with a manner I could not understand, but which sobered me at once, expressing a wish to speak a few words to me in the breakfast-room. I do not intend to enter into the particulars of what he told me; the -substance of it was, that my father was ruined, and my mother had written to Mr. Smith, requesting him to break the intelligence to me, and to assist me to procure a situation as nursery governess. nursery governess!" I exclaimed, indignantly;

" what can mamma be thinking of; am I to waste my time and my talents curling children's hair and darning their stockings ?” Mr. Smith laid his hand kindly on my arm,

My dear Mary,” he began ; but I interrupted him to entreat that he would return with me to the other room, as I did not wish Mrs. Smith or my young companions to suspect that anything unpleasant had occurred, till I had decided what I should do.

What an evening that was ! Too sick at heart to enjoy any, thing, I yet entered even boisterously into my young friends' mirth, and appeared the gayest of the party ; but when at length I had said “good night,” and was alone, I threw myself into a chair, and gave way to such a burst' of bitter weeping

as shook my frame. I pass over the next few weeks; my pride was crushed, not humbled, and I was ready to take offence at every fancied slight. No one could have been kinder than my dear friends, and through their interest I obtained a situation in a family in the town, as instructress to two little girls, the

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eldest of whom was nine years of age, the youngest only five.

Mrs. Smith called with me upon Mrs. Burton, and did all she could to smooth my way; still the despised offices of curling hair and darning stockings had to be performed, and I declared, with most broken-hearted tears, that I never could submit to the degradation,- for such I really deemed it.

It was in the early spring that I entered upon my duties. Mrs. Burton received me most kindly, and herself went with me to the suite of rooms set apart for the use of myself and my little pupils ; they consisted of a nice airy bed-room, in which were two beds, one for me and the other for the children, and a very pleasant sitting-room, which opened to the garden, and from which there was a door of communication with the nursery, for there were two younger children. Mrs. Burton pointed out to me all the advantages and conveni. ences of these rooms, opened a good piano, which was in the sitting-room, and played a few simple airs, reached some nice books from the shelves, where they were neatly arranged, and then left me to make myself at home, as she said, bidding me ring for Hannah, the nursery-maid, if I wanted any assistance in unpacking. It was with a strange feeling that I closed the door of my bed-room, and began to arrange my clothes in the drawers. I did not shed any tears, I was too proud for that, but I was oppressed with a strange feeling of desolateness.

In the course of an hour I was beginning to feel more reconciled, as my room began to wear more of a home look, when a very gentle tap drew me to the door, which I opened to as lovely a child as I ever gazed on; it was my eldest pupil. “Mamma sent me to ask you to come to tea," she said. “I will come immediately," I replied ; “will you wait for me? What is your name !" My name is Edith," she answered ; “I shall like to wait for you." Mr. Burton was seated at the tea-table when I entered the

I had not seen him before, and his gentlemanly appearance, and the pleasant manner in which he rose and greeted me, made me think, perhaps, after all it would not be so bad as I had imagined ; and before we left the table I had entered into conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Burton with much interest, and exerted all my powers to make myself agreeable to my little pupils. As soon as the meal was over, Edith, unbidden, reached a large Bible and a hymn. book, which she placed before her father. “We like to have family worship early," he remarked, “that the children may be present." Family worship! I thought. I suppose,

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then, these are pious people; I am sure I shall never stay, if they are. Rosa rang the bell, and three female servants came in and quietly took their seats. We sang the hymn beginning, “ There is a fountain filled with blood;" then Mr. Burton read Ps. ciii., and then he prayed. In spite of myself I was constrained to listen, and to approve of much that he said; but I thought he was very foolish when he asked for help to think, as well as to do, what was right. I do not mean that I had never heard before that all mankind were sinners, for this I had learned in catechisms at school, and constantly heard declared from the pulpit; but it was the first time it had ever been forcibly presented to my mind; and when he prayed for me that I might be enabled to perform my duty to the little ones, I felt angry, as if I wanted help to do what I knew to be my duty.

When we rose from our knees Mrs. Burton said, “I hope, when the children are in bed, you will return to us;" but I pleaded weariness, and begged to be excused, and left the room with Rosa and Edith, more uncomfortable than I can describe. Not able to think a good thought, I repeated to myself, " Absurd ! impossible! My thoughts, I am sure, are always right, at least for the most part.' I certainly curled the children's hair that night, but I was too much occupied to think of the humiliation ; and when they were laid down to sleep, still my mind, against my will, would return to the same subject.

I cannot relate all the steps by which my heavenly Father led me to a knowledge of myself; I was slow, because unwilling, to be convinced, that in me, that is, in my flesh, dwelleth no good thing; the first evening of my residence in this family, conviction laid hold upon me, but I fought long against it.

The summer had nearly passed; I was happy and contented in my occupation; my pupils were obedient and intelligent, and Mr. and Mrs. Burton treated me with every respect and kindness.

had been spending the afternoon with some friends, and on my return found that Edith had complained of severe headache, and was gone to bed; I hastened to the child. "Oh! my dear Miss Melville, she exclaimed, “I am so glad you are come home. I am going home soon, and I want you to be with me all the time till I go.

I thought the dear child was delirious, and said something soothing, without any reference to her remark; she lay quiet for a time, then she said, “I am not afraid to die, Miss Melville.”


“Darling, you are not going to die,” I said ; “I hope you will be quite well again to-morrow.

“I do not want to be well,” she answered; “I want so much to go to heaven."

I could not answer her ; I could not understand her. I had been lately trying to do what I knew to be right, and had found so much sin still mingled with my best performances, that my only feeling, in looking forward to death, was fear. I could not stand before God in my own righteousness, and I would not believe that I needed the imputed righteousness of another.

After a long silence, I said, “Edith, do you not fear that judgment of which we have so often spoken"

“ No,” she answered firmly; "for I am sure Jesus loves “ And how does that remove your fear?” I asked.

“ Because Jesus has taken all my sins away, and God will not punish me; but do please read to me in the Bible about it."

“What shall I read?" I asked. Edith chose the fifty-third of Isaiah, and I read the chapter without one word of comment. After I had closed the book, and my little charge had sunk to sleep, some of the words returned again and again to my mind. “The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.' “ He bore the sins of many." I could not lay hold of this truth, neither could I banish the subject from my mind.

Mrs. Burton came in gently, and finding that Edith slept, she insisted on my going with her to the sitting-room, say. ing I looked pale and tired. Mr. Burton was there; he was pacing up and down the room, but he turned immediately to me and inquired about Edith. I answered that she was asleep, and seemed quite easy; and Mrs. Burton added, “Oh! she will be quite well to-morrow.'

I cannot tell why it was that I shrank from the easy, cheerful manner in which these words were uttered ; and something seemed to whisper that the little girl was right, and that she was going soon to exchange her earthly for an eternal home; still, I would not alarm the parents ; though when the morning found her too ill to rise, I begged Mrs. Burton to send, without delay, for a medical man. This gentleman, far from confirming my fears, assured the mother that there was very little the matter, and that his little favourite would be running about again in a day or two.

Edith heard what he said, and when he had left the room, she called me to her. “Dear Miss Melville, please tell him not to say that to papa. I want him to know that I shall soon

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