During the 2nd of May-the day on which she took her departure-she appeared quite resigned and submissive to the will of her Heavenly Father. Her friends continued to minister to her, and to pray with her; especially her leader, who was with her when her spirit almost imperceptibly took its flight.

"Sometimes our hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes belied

We thought her dying-when she slept;
And sleeping-when she died.

Her end was peace."

In compliance with her request, the scholars, after attending morning service on the day of the anniversary, proceeded to pay their last tribute of respect to their departed sister.

It was a touching sight to all who witnessed it The children, dressed in white, clustering round the mortal remains of one, who was to have joined them in singing their hallelujahs in the house of the Lord on that day; but who had ere then joined in the sweet song in the realms of bliss. In vain the children tried to control their feelings; the silent tear trickled down the cheek, and checked the utterance, as they endeavoured to unite in singing that beautiful hymn, "The morning flowers display their sweets," &c.

Her remains were deposited in the New Cemetery ; the funeral service being conducted by Mr. Thomas B. Saul, in accordance with the desire of the deceased.

Thou

Reader, art thou ready for such a change! Thou art young-so was she; yet the change took place. art healthy and active-so was she; yet affliction seized upon her, and speedily did its work. Thou injurest no one, but art touched with the infirmities of others- so was she; yet she found she must be something more before she could enter heaven. O Reader! take warning from one who, in the full bloom of youth, sought after that salvation, which is offered to thee; yet found it only just in time to secure eternal happiness. O Lord! so teach

us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts

THE BLIND BALLAD-SINGER.

I LIVE in a very quiet place, at least it is called a quiet place,- -a square that turns out of one of our main thoroughfares, and has a nice green plot in the middle of it, where you and I might have many a good game this sunshiny weather. Though there is very little traffic, and all the houses are private houses, the place is not so quiet as you might suppose, for all day long people are turning into it to sell their wares, or play us a tune. Sometimes we have nine or ten organ-men in one day, grinding out music from their instruments, and favouring us with the "Red, White, and Blue," over, and over again; then there is a brass band that comes pretty often, and consists of seven or eight performers, with all sorts of horns, and who are quite professional, bringing printed or written music with them, and laying it on the gravel in fine style; and besides these, we have many others that I could mention, if it was worth while, but as it is not, I shall content myself with saying, that of all the visitors to our square, one only really interested me, and it is about her I want to tell you now.

One wet night, when the rain was coming down as fast as the wind would let it, and was driven all on the slant, I heard somebody singing in the square. It was a clear, sweet voice, and the strain was so plaintive, that it almost brought the tears into one's eyes to hear it. It was strange weather, and a strange time to sing, being nearly ten o'clock at night, but I could not help listening, and my opinion is that you would have listened also if you had been with me. Now, we have often heard balladsingers, and have not cared to listen to them very long either; but there was something in the one I mention which attracted attention and fixed it at once. I opened

the window, and went out on the balcony, just to take a peep at the songstress, and saw two children. One was much smaller than the other, and the biggest it was who sang. I gave them some halfpence, and heard no more of them for that night: the rough wind sang its own wild song, and dashed the rain-drops on the window-panes in its boisterous mirth.

Two or three days afterwards I saw the children again. It was then broad daylight, and what I had failed to perceive before I now made out. The elder child was blind

-her eyes were open, "but their sense was shut." They were light blue eyes, that always seemed in quest of the light, and never found it. The blind girl was not more than eleven years old, and the child who was with her four years younger. Their mother was a widow-not a loving, gentle, kind mother, such as mine was, such as I trust yours is, but a harsh, rough woman, who loved strong drink better than she loved her children, and who sent them out a-begging, that the affliction of her eldestborn might excite the compassion of the benevolent, and thus bring money to be spent in the public-house. I did not find this out for a good while, but having interested two or three friends in the case, we gradually inquired into the real condition of our little singer.

Letty-they called her Letty-had been born blind. The world was all dark to her, and her mind was dark also, for, poor little soul, she had never heard of Jesus, that "light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world." She was blind, and her affliction made her fretful and sad, and oftentimes passionate. She knew nothing but that the world was dark to her; that her home was wretched; that her blindness was even the sport of the vicious and unfeeling; that, driven out to sing for money, or to beg, she was beaten cruelly if unsuccessful; that the mother to whom she should have looked for consolation, was harsh and exacting; and that the scanty sums she, poor little one, obtained, only added to the misery at home, by giving her mother the means of obtaining liquor.

The lot of the blind child was very sad. Some kind friends visited her home, and tried to make that home more happy, but in vain. I don't think you ever saw so wretched a place as that home was; it seemed almost wrong to call it by so dear a name, it was a miserable hovel. The mother, however, sulkily consented to the visits that were made, and was always willing enough that the child should come to one of our houses. These visits were bright spots in poor Letty's existence. She heard things new and strange, and was never tired of hearing. Words were her pictures, and never seemed Letty so happy as when some friend read to her of Jesus Christ.

"Read that again," she asked, one day, when she had listened to the story of Bartimeus, "let me hear about that again, if you please, ma'am.”

And the story was read to her.

"I think I can remember it now," she said, while her eyes wandered vacantly over the room, seeking the light they always sought and never found," the good JesusJesus is our Saviour, who came from heaven to die for the wicked, that the wicked might be forgiven and made good, and taken to heaven when they die-the good Jesus was going into a town, and a great many people were going with him, and there sat by the wayside a blind man begging. Wasn't he begging?"

"Yes, it was blind Bartimeus the beggar."

"Yes, he was blind, like me; he was a beggar, like me, and he heard that the good Jesus was going past that way; and he called out and said, 'Jesus, thou Son of David, have mercy on me ;' and when the people told him to be still, he would not be still-I wouldn't have been still either, but cried all the more to Jesus Christ. And the good Jesus was not offended, but called him to him. And the blind man threw away his coat and came—I should have ran-to Jesus; and when Jesus asked him what he wanted, he said, his sight. And Jesus gave him his sight, and then he knew what light meant. Is that right?"

"It is."

"I shall be sure to remember it. When I heard about this first, I thought I should have asked for my sight, like the blind man.'

"And would you not ask for it now?"

"No," the child said, earnestly, "I would ask him to save me, and when I get to heaven,-when I get to heaven"

"Well, what then?"

"Then I shall see clearly, and everything will be beautiful, and I shall see him face to face!"

Thus you perceive, my dear young reader, the light of truth had shone into the heart of the poor blind child, and God had given her grace to put her trust and confidence in Jesus Christ. The poor blind ballad-singer, who was so miserable in her appearance, so destitute in her circumstances, so low down in the world that everybody seemed to forget her, was remembered by our Father in heaven.

"I don't know what has come over Letty," said her mother to me, "she used to be so cross and snappish, and would sit a-moping in a corner for the hour together, but now she is so kind and gentle, and so cheerful, that I almost get afraid of the child."

Our efforts were of course directed to procure the blind girl admission into an asylum where her afflicted state would be properly considered and cared for. We were successful, but the success was too late for Letty. The child had gradually fallen ill. The deep red flush on her cheeks showed that the terrible disease-consumptionhad laid its heavy hand upon her, and that Letty would soon behold the glory she so joyfully anticipated. The best thing to be done under the circumstances was to get her into an hospital; and this was done. Poor little Letty, how gentle and patient she was in her new home. "I never saw so gentle a lamb," said one of the nurses; "she never gets fretful, though she suffers a great deal, poor thing; and you'll hear her singing softly to herself about heaven, and the holy children that are round the