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lived ;

bread and cup of milk had been given to Emma, and that cake that neighbour Dudley had given to Willie for running on some message, must not be touched-that was for mother-it would be so good for her.

And where was the strong arm and loving heart of a husband and father, to shield the loved ones in this the day of trouble ? Away, many miles over hill and valley, was a little graveyard embosomed in the woods, and there under a green hillock lay the husband and father of these sufferers. No storms of life's troubled sea could reach him there ; no wailings of sorrow, bursting from the torn hearts of the loved ones, could disturb his rest. Full well he had laboured in the work of the ministry while he

but the Master said, “It is enough ;” and he fell asleep in Jesus.

While away on his duties of preaching the Gospel to his fellow-men, he sickened. No wife was there to soothe or comfort ; no children stood around his couch to receive his parting blessing. Strange faces were about him, and strangers' hands soothed his dying pillow.

His wife arrived just in time to bid him farewell for ever. He immediately recognized her, and grasping her hand, whispered, “Mary--my work-is done. The Saviour calls me.”

“Dear Henry, is Christ precious to you?” asked his weeping wife.

"None but Christ,” whispered the dying man. how precious he is now! All is well !”

Becoming uneasy, he desired to be raised a little, but when the attendants were about to fulfil his wish, a pang of mortal agony depicted itself on the pallid features.

“Oh! Saviour ! succour-bless--” exclaimed his wife, as she beheld the loved one in the last conflict. The agony was but momentary--a placid sweetness now spread itself on the countenance of the dying preacher.

“Mary--farewell! God will take care of you-farewell—Jesus--glory—" and Henry Anderson gently fell asleep.

And there, in the little sheltered nook, they buried

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him ; and the widow, with her fatherless children, turned away to their desolate home. And few, few cared to inquire how it would fare with her and her little ones.

And now, after two years hard struggling, we find clouds hovering over the bereaved family-clouds, however, with a silver lining. For, dark and gloomy and dreary as the clouds may be that often overshadow the pathway of God's children, they all have bright edges to them; thus proclaiming that God's face is not turned away, but that his countenance is only hid from their view for a season.

The brothers had been sitting by the fire for nearly an hour, when little Emma, whom they thought must be asleep, came running into the room, and desired to be taken on Charley's knee.

“I thought you were sleeping, Emma,” said Charles, as the child got settled on the desired spot. I'm not sleepy," replied the child, “ but come see

Mamma's sleeping, Charley ; mamma no speak to Emma.”

The children went slowly and cautiously into the little bed-room, and for fear of disturbing their mother, they walked to the bedside on tiptoe. The candle was burning dimly by the side of the sleeper, revealing her features calm and peaceful. Charles drew near and looked upon his mother. The eyes were partly closed, the jaw had fallen ; mamma was asleep!-she was sleeping in death!

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Next day beheld a company assembled at the cottage. A coffin was there, too, and Charles and William, with little Emma, who had been taken during the night to a neighbour's house, stood close by.

What a scene of sorrow was there presented ! Ere the coffin lid was screwed down, the children drew near to the beloved dead to take a last look. “ Farewell, dear mother !" gasped Charles, in heartrending tones, as he stooped down and imprinted a kiss on the cold lips.

“Come, Willie, kiss mother-we will see her no more.” William gave vent to a passionate burst of grief. But

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little Emma's childish sorrow brought tears to every eye. On being lifted up to see her mother, she laid her hand on the cold face and looked a moment

“ Mamma! waken! here's Emma !” she exclaimed, mamma no speak to me, Charley !” and the little one sobbed as if her heart would break.

The coffin lid was fastened down, and hid the remains of the preacher's widow from mortal view. A short distance from the village was the little graveyard, and there they laid her till the archangel's voice shall summon the dead to meet the Lord at his second coming.

Although it was known to the villagers that Mrs. Anderson had been ailing for some time, yet no one thought her absolutely in danger. Her sudden and unexpected death, therefore, came upon them like a thunderclap. Many were the expressions of sympathy that were uttered towards the orphans.

“I wonder what will become of them, Squire ?" said old Mrs. Green to John Cook, Esq., who was looked upon as the village oracle— they have no friends hereabout that I know of.”

“The orphans will have to be looked to," replied the Squire, "put on the township, I suppose."

“Right well brought up children they are--the boys are more like grown Christians than mere children,” con1 tinued Mrs. Green.

"Humph! Like other people's, I suppose,” replied the Squire.

“That girl won't be long behind her mammy, or I'm mistaken,” said the old woman, heedless of the ungracious remark just made. “I doubt whether the sod on her mammy's grave will be green before they are both side 1: by side.”

“ Couldn't you do something for the boys ?" she con1. tinued, “such as getting them into some pious family ?they could be useful in many ways, and thus be provided with a home. May the Good Being bless the orphans !”

“I will see in a few days," replied the Squire, and the conversation dropped.


The prophecy uttered by old Mrs. Green, respecting little Emma, was soon to be verified. Sympathizing deeply with the lonely orphans, now turned loose upon the wide, wide world, she took them to her own humble home on the day that saw their mother laid beneath the clods of the valley.

Poor as she was, she felt that God would provide for her and them too. She had only a widow's mite to give and she gave it cheerfully. Emma, however, would not long require an earthly home. Her appearance indicated that mother and child would soon be united never more to part. She talked incessantly about "mamma," and when, as she often desired, she was placed on Charley's knee, she would whisper in his ear, “ Charley, I want mamma--mamma sleeping long while.” Was not the spirit of the sainted mother communing with the little one ? She sunk rapidly, like a bud nipped by untimely frosts.

Two months after the mother's death, Charles and William were called in to see their darling sister die. She was lying on her little bed, apparently unconscious. Shortly, the silken lashes were raised, and her bright, full eye gazed long and lovingly on each ; a sweet smile played on her lips--a smile such as may spread itself on the countenances of angels. She appeared as if wishing to speak. Charley bent over her.

“Nurse me-Charley—on knee,” faintly whispered the dying child. She was raised, and her brother sat down with her in his arms.

“Kiss-Willie-you no cry,” she lisped, as her head leaned on her brother's bosom.

"Sing-happy--land-Charley." The little one did not require an earthly song. Heavenly music was now near.

A convulsive throb disturbed the peaceful features for a moment, and all was still. Presently a sweet smile passed over the face of the sufferer ; she raised one of her hands and whispered, “Mamma," and little Emma breathed her last. And in the graveyard, beside her mother, they laid her tiny form, but the spirits of Mamma and Emma had met in the better land.American Wesleyan.



MANCHESTER. The subject of this memoir was born at Middlewich, in Cheshire, January 31st, 1839. At an early age he entered the Wesleyan Association Sunday School there, and was a constant attendant till his parents removed to Manchester, when he entered and continued a scholar in the Tonman Street school, till early in 1850, when a room was opened in Bangor Street, Hulme, for divine service and a Sunday school. This being nearer his residence, David and other members of the family became regular attendants both at the school and the religious services.

His attachment to the school increased, and nothing seemed to give him greater pleasure than to see an increase of scholars. On account of his zeal in this respect, he was in the beginning of the present year appointed an absentee visiter and assistant secretary; and he cheerfully discharged the duties up to the time of his illness, which commenced on the 10th of September, 1853. He was naturally of a mild disposition ; and was much endeared to his schoolfellows and other acquaintances. He delighted to associate with children who loved and feared God, and shunned evil company; he was also a total abstainer from intoxicating drinks, and honoured the cause of temperance until his death. He also evinced a

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