not err therein. No lion shall be there, nor any ravenous beast shall go up thereon, it shall not be found there. And the ransomed of the Lord shall return and come to Zion with songs, and everlasting joy upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away."

J. J. Gurney.

A VISIT TO NURSE GRAHAM'S COTTAGE, AS DESCRIBED IN "NO FICTION."

DOUGLAS, judging of her feeling said, "it must always be a matter of grief to the Christian, to think of the rebellious temper he has indulged; but to be sure, your circumstances were remarkably distressing."

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They were sir," she replied, with an affectionate emphasis, which showed she could estimate real sympathy. "I felt that I was a poor, desolate, childless, widow, I lost my last hope in losing my dear boy.' "And how did he die?" "He died on the bloody field, perhaps trampled on and forsaken; oh, he had no mother near him, to kiss his cold lips, to wipe the sweat off his face, and to watch over his mangled body, perhaps he might have lived if he had. Well, let me not think of it; my heart is full, she said, with an apologizing manner, when I remember these things; but do not think that I complain of them, no, I must not complain, I must be thankful; there seemed as the apostle says, a needs be for these afflictions, to bring me to God. When I lost my husband, I thought more about religion than I used to do, yet not enough,

EE

but when I lost my child, all was gone. I had no hope on earth, and no hope in heaven; I read my Bible as I never did before, and I found comfort in it, when I could find it no where else. This blessed book, (laying her hand on its pages,) was a cordial to my broken heart; it led me to Jesus, my Saviour, and I saw in him more than I wanted,-I was helped to put my trust in his name; O, how happy have I been since I have known the Lord. He is dearer to me than husband, or child, or life, and though I seem a deserted widow, I feel he is present with me, and that comforts me."

"And," said Lefevre, "have you no cares about the future?"

Why should I," replied she, with an animated and happy countenance; "this book teaches me that God is my father and protector. He clothes the lily; and shall he not clothe me? He preserves the sparrow; and shall he not keep me? He feeds the raven; and shall he not feed me? O! I should be of little faith indeed, if I doubted his goodness. Sometimes, indeed, I have found it hard to make things meet, but I have always seen the promise fulfilled, "Thy bread shall be given thee, and thy water shall be sure;" and depend upon it, bread and water, with God's blessing, is good fare.

"Yes," she continued, "God is a faithful God; I can trust him with myself, and my two poor orphans; how many promises has he made to the widow and the fatherless. He has said, "I will never leave thee,

nor forsake thee," and on that promise I can depend. I have not long to live, and want but little while I do live; and when I die, to ascend to heaven, to dwell before the throne of God and my Saviour, for ever and ever; O! what joy is it." As she ceased, her voice was filled with animation, holy pleasure dwelt on all her countenance, and her soul seemed looking out at in anticipation of the inheritance of the saints

her eye,

in light.

The happy silence which had prevailed a few moments, was now interrupted by the children, who ran in with rosy and cheerful faces, the elder having a small paper fly-cage in his hand. "What have you there, my dear," said Mrs. Graham? "A butterfly, grandmother, such a beauty, only see, I have had such a run for it." "It is very pretty," said she, looking at it, but I cannot bear to have it hurt; don't you know, I have often told you how good God is to you, and that you should be good to every thing?" "Yes, grandmother," said he, " and I don't mean to hurt it."

"But, my dear John, you do hurt it; you would not injure it like some cruel boys, but do you think it can be happy, shut up in this thing, when God has made it to fly about in the sun and air? Should you be happy, if I were to shut you in a dark box, instead of letting you play on the hill?" "Then I will let it go," said he, with concern on his face, "I didn't mean to hurt it." The child ran to the door, cheerfully to liberate the little captive, and afterwards hastened to his grandmother, to offer the atoning kiss; while the younger child pressing into Douglas's knees, and look

ing in his face, said, with an apologizing look, "he only did it two times, and he won't do it again."

"Sweet child," said Lefevre, who was standing at the elbow of his friend.

"Ah," whispered Douglas to him, "if Nero had had such a parent, Rome had probably blessed him as a benefactor, instead of abhorring him as a bloodthirsty tyrant."

"They are good children," resumed Mrs. Graham; "at first I used to fret, and think it was impossible for an old woman to manage for them. But so it is, we often complain at what is to be a blessing to us. They are the greatest comfort I have, except my Bible. I endeavour to teach them, as far as I know, their duty to God and man; and Dr. Mills says he'll teach them their other learning. He is, indeed, a good minister of Jesus Christ. I never read about the Saviour in the Evangelists, but I think of him, he is so like him in everything he does. He has put John to school, and taught him some verses to repeat to the visitors who come to my humble cottage."

"Pray let us hear them," said Lefevre.

John stood forward, and making a bow, repeated the following stanzas, with so much modesty and sensibility, as deeply to interest and affect his auditors:

THE ORPHAN.

PAUSE, gracious stranger, pause awhile,
And hear an orphan's tale;

An orphan's piteous tale might make

The ruddiest cheek turn pale.

Ah! once I did not need your ear
To listen to my woe;

No cause had I to make complaint,
No sorrow did I know.

But as the lark that mounts the sky,
And sings from morn till night,
So did my little heart rebound,
With undisturbed delight.

Oft did I with my father play,
And prattle on his knee,

And at those times I used to think
No child was glad like me.

But ere I well could speak his name,
He died on foreign shore,

And then I often sighed, and thought
I should be glad no more.

My mother, oh, 'tis long ago
Since I could call her so;

I have no mother! No, she's fled
From this sad world of woe.

My father's death quite broke her heart,

And wither'd all her joys;

She'd look at me, and weep, and say,

Poor little orphan boy!