this way to the schoolmistress, and as she had seen so much of disease and suffering, advised with her as to what course to pursue. The squire and his family had left the place to escape the contagion, and he sorrowed that he had no means to relieve the general distress. "It is all true that effectual and fervent prayer availeth much,” said the schoolmistress, "but in addition to this the poor want a great deal of clean linen; the doctor can give the febrifuge, but it is for others to assist in sanitary work; we must collect linen from those who can spare it, and distribute it amongst the most destitute," and other plans were thought of and carried into effect. The pastor enlisted the village tailor into the good work, a most feeling and kind-hearted man, and supplies were readily collected and sympathies were awakened which always in some measure mitigates suffering and pain. The tailor was a religious man, esteemed amongst the poor of the neighbourhood, he knelt by the sick man's lowly couch, and pointed to the promised rest; his words were full of comfort to sorrowing friends who watched the last of nature's efforts, the last sad sigh of those they loved. The poor will often listen to pious persons of their own class, in preference to ministers, who cannot comprehend their mind so well; those whose life had not been marked by consistency would send for him to pray with them in the last lone hours of ebbing life, they seemed to think that he was something to cling to in their extremity. For some weeks Judith took several children to her own home and shared her hard fare with them to relieve their parents, others followed her example, remembering her self-denial, the doctor began to speak kindly, and Mr.

Harrison thought there was something good about the blind woman after all.

The hard winter passed, and with returning spring reviving health; yet there was another sorrow reserved for Judith, the cold winds had nipped her own little floweret, and just when violets were lifting their little blue heads above the withered leaves it drooped and died. The mother bore the bereavement with resignation, she knew into whose care she had ccmmitted her, and with this assurance she did not refuse to be comforted, as those without hope; little Violet was borne to the grave by maidens dressed in white garments, and the pastor's daughter wove a garland of the same sweet flowers that grow on a bank, and placed it on the dark coffin lid, and when the pastor committed her dust to dust, the children who followed in the train wept for the little blossom.

There was one letter from the soldier in character with the writer, exulting in his blood-stained sword that had done so much good service; they were then hurrying the French out of Spain, like wolves on the track of their prey. He did not express himself with flowing tenderness, but had contrived to send a small sum of money as a token of his love, and hoped to see his native village as soon as the French had been beaten on their own ground; this wish was afterwards accomplished. Judith maintained her rising reputa ́tion as a schoolmistress, and was now enabled to support herself with some degree of comfort; the pastor and his daughter continued her steadfast friends, and assisted materially in forming her school, but alas! the time was at hand when Miss Edith was to lay aside

her usefulness by that slow and undermining disease which flatters whilst it destroys, and leads to the grave with tardy steps, though sure; and thus love and friendships perish; but let us look beyond the veil, there we may hope to meet the long lost smile of parent, brother, sister, and endeared friend. We love to cherish this hope, and the blind schoolmistress felt thus towards the pastor's daughter.

H

CHAPTER XIII.

THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER.

WE are sometimes led to ejaculate "Oh! happy England, how we love thy peaceful Sabbaths;" the quietude of that day is felt by all who have been taught in early youth that "the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God," the ballowed influences of which are more observable in a remote village, than in a crowded city; the stiliness of the former is seldom broken, except by the accustomed ding dong of the old church bell, summoning peaceful worshippers to the family pew or humbler bench, the tranquillity is not disturbed by riot or excess, or the loud bawl of petty trade; and if the artless village maid compete her ribbons or inexpensive many coloured gown with the lady of the manor, we smile and say it is natural.

It was on a peaceful Sabbath-eve, about the end of June, when the pastor's daughter sent for Judith, who had paid her many visits during her illness, but she now felt that her time was come to depart, she could not talk to her father on the subject, his anguish was so great, he could not give her up although he believed that angels were waiting to convey her to everlasting blessedness; he thought of her sainted mother, and the old heart wounds would bleed afresh. "Oh! how easy it is," he would say, "to commend the precious

promises to others, and teach resignation to the Divine will, but how difficult to apply them to our own. hearts." He had flattered himself that she might still be spared to him, but now the reality rushed upon him as a flood. He was weeping and disconsolate over the hopes of his declining years, that he did not notice when Martha conducted Judith into the room. "It is Judith, father," said the sufferer cheerfully, "I sent for her, I want to tell her my love tale; you remember how she once indulged my curiosity."

The pastor thought that she was wandering from weakness, he did not reply; but his daughter anticipated his thoughts. "It is the love of Jesus, father," she said, "but I think you had better leave me for a little while; you are fatigued with your duties and need rest; Judith will remain with me.'

When the pastor had retired, Miss Edith took Judith's hand affectionately, saying, "I wanted to see you, I shall not be long." Judith kissed her thin and wasted hand, but could not give utterance to her pentup feelings, for she loved the pastor's daughter, who had sympathized with her and called her friend, even when she was beholden to a parish, and had owned and caressed her own little one, the soldier's child now in heaven.

"Are you weeping, Judith, I want you to love me, but not to sorrow for me; I sent for you to converse about future prospects in the world of spirits."

"I can listen now," said Judith, "it was selfish me, but I am as a stricken deer which weeps its woes in solitude. Is it your impression that you are about

to leave us?"