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gratitude to admit of its learning the lesson of sadness."

Mr. Melroy was about to answer, but he was interrupted, by a knock at the door; and our village physician entered in great haste.

66

Mr. Melroy had succeeded in administering comfort to O'Neil, who at last consented to lie down and rest; and our May bent like the ministering angel that she was over the sick couch of the two children, smoothing their pillows and bathing their temples.

"This is a wretched family," observed Mr. Melroy,

I come," said he, to our May, " from O'Neilsthe poor woman 's worse, and I am afraid she will notturning to Mr. Day. hold out much longer. I advised them to send for a clergyman; but she says no one can pray for her like the sweet young lady who visited her to-night. So, my dear, if you will just jump into my carriage, your face will do more good than my medicine."

"Ay, but it would have been more wretched still, if it had 'nt been for our May. She came as willingly as the like of her would walk into her uncle's parlor, the minute I made her know how much she was needed; and all these little comforts are of her ordering. She sent too for Dr. Houghton, and left her purse with me to pay him; but Dr. Houghton says he can't take money from such an angel."

"Is she always so?" asked Melroy, in a low tone. "Always so! bless your heart, don't you know she's always so, and you the minister! Why she is doing good all the time, she 's kind to every body, and no one can help loving her."

Our May snatched her bonnet, without speaking a word, or glancing at the astonished faces beside her; and she was half way to O'Neil's, before she knew that Mr. Melroy was by her side, and still held the han by which he had assisted her into the carriage. For some reason, though a tremor crept from the heart into that pretty prisoned hand, our May did not think { proper to withdraw it; and soon all selfish thoughts were dissipated by the scene of misery upon which they entered. Mrs. O'Neil was already dead; and thetarily, and glancing at our May, who was supporting Millers, in whose hands the kind-hearted physician had left her, were endeavoring to silence the clamors of the children, and striving all they could to comfort O'Neil, who, with true Irish eloquence, was pouring out his lamentations over the corpse of his wife.

"An' there's the swate leddy who spake the kind word to me," said one of the noisy group, springing towards our May, 66 my Imither said she was heaven's own angel, sure."

"Well, come to me," said our May, and I will speak to you some more kind words-poor things! you need them, sorely."

"No one can help it," answered Melroy, involun

the head of the little sufferer on her hand, while she was directing Mrs. Day how to prepare the medicine..

After the sick children had been cared for, and it was ascertained that Mr. and Mrs. Day, with one of her sisters, would remain at O'Neil's during the night, Dr. Houghton, with Mr. Melroy and our May, took leave. The drive home was performed in silence; and young parson Melroy, after conducting our May to her uncle's door, pressed her hand with a whispered, «God bless you!" and turned away.

In less than a twelve month from the death of poor Mrs. O'Neil very ominous preparations were going forward in the family mansion of 'Squire Loomis. They were ended at last by the introduction of our May to the pretty parsonage; and, although she still

The children gathered around the fair young girl, noisily at first; but, as she gradually gained their attention, their clamors ceased; and she at last made them consent to accompany father Miller to the farm-laughs very merrily, and sometimes overturns whole' house, where it was thought best for them to remain until after the funeral of the poor mother.

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passages of her husband's eloquence by a single stroke of humor, although she still prefers doing good privately, and does not attend every meeting of the society, where her happy face appears, her husband's is far from being the only heart or the only tongue to pronounce the God bless you!"

LOVE AND

(See Plate.)

life.

GLORY.

THE days of Love and Glory" have passed, and very happy or very miserable. We presume they it now requires something more attractive than a red are about parting, she to dream of "Love" and he of coat, glittering epaulettes, and a sword snugly en«Glory." If he is going out to battle in defence of sconced in its scabbard to win the hearts of our fair his country we wish him "God speed," if in the cause ladies of the nineteenth century. It is a very uncom- of wrong and oppression, a more honorable pursuit in fortable thing to have a lover away on a three years campaign, and to live in the daily expectation of seeing his name in the bulletin as among the dead or wounded. Our maidens prefer to fall in love with quiet citizens. Fewer tears are shed. it is true, and to the really romantic life is rather a tame affair, but this evil is not an unendurable one.

The lovers in the picture before us do not seem to be

With us, the sight of a soldier always awakens unpleasant emotions. It is too sad a commentary upon the evil heart of man for us to think upon with other feelings. Still, we hold in the highest estimation the man who devotes his life to his country in fighting against her enemies, as we hold in the deepest detestation him who basely deserts her in her extremity.

THE MOTHER.

BY Ꭲ . S. ARTHUR.

[THE Third Volume of the Series of Books, "THE MAIDEN," "THE WIFE," and "THE MOTHER," is nearly ready, and will appear in a few days. We give an extract in this number of our Magazine.

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"THERE come the children from school," said Aunt Mary, looking from the window. "Just see that Clarence! He'll have Henry in the gutter. I never saw just such another boy. Why can't he come quietly along like other children. There!-now he must stop to throw stones at the pigs. That boy 'll give you the heart-ache yet, Anna."

Mrs. Hartley made no reply, but laid aside her work quietly and left the room, to see that their dinner was ready. In a few minutes the street door was thrown open, and the children came bounding in, full of life, and noisy as they could be.

"Where is your coat, Clarence ?" she asked, in a pleasant tone, looking her oldest boy in the face.

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Oh, I forgot!" he replied, cheerfully, and turning quickly, he ran down stairs, and lifting his coat from where, in his thoughtlessness, he had thrown it upon the floor, hung it up in its proper place, and then sprung up the stairs.

"Is n't dinner ready yet?" he said, with fretful impatience, his whole manner changing suddenly. "I'm hungry."

"It will be ready in a few minutes, Clarence." "I want it now. I'm hungry."

"Did you ever hear of the man," said Mrs. Hartley, in a voice that showed no disturbance of mind, "who wanted the sun to rise an hour before its time?"

66 No, mother Tell me about it, won't you?" All impatience had vanished from the boy's face. "There was a man who had to go upon a journey. The stage coach was to call for him at sunrise. More than an hour before it was time for the sun to be up, the man was all ready to go, and for the whole of that hour he walked the floor impatiently, grumbling at the sun because he did not rise. I'm all ready,

and I want to be going,' he said. C It's time the sun was up, long ago.' Don't you think he was a very foolish man?"

Clarence laughed, and said he thought the man was very foolish indeed.

"Do you think he was more foolish than you were, just now, for grumbling because dinner was n't ready?"

Clarence laughed again, and said he did not know. Just then, Hannah, the cook, brought in the waiter, with the children's dinner upon it. Clarence språng for a chair, and drew it hastily and noisily to the table.

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"That is much better, my son."

And thus she corrected his disorderly habits, quieted his impatient temper, and checked his rudeness, without showing any disturbance. This she had to do daily. At almost every meal she found it necessary to repress his rude impatience. It was line upon line, and precept upon precept. But she never tired, and rarely permitted herself to show that she was disturbed, no matter how deeply grieved she was at times over the wild and reckless spirit of her boy.

On the next day she was not very well. Her head ached badly all the morning. Hearing the children in the passage, when they came in from school at noon, she was rising from the bed where she had lain down, to attend to them, and give them their dinners, when Aunt Mary said

"Don't get up, Anna. I will see to the chil

dren."

But so

It was rarely that Mrs. Hartley let any one do for them what she could do herself, for no one else could manage the unhappy temper of Clarence. violent was the pain in her head, that she let Aunt Mary go, and sunk back upon the pillow from which she had arisen. A good deal of noise and confusion continued to reach her ears, from the moment the children came in. At length a loud cry, and passionate words from Clarence, caused her to rise up quickly and go over to the dining room. All was confusion there, and Aunt Mary out of humor, and scolding prodigiously. Clarence was standing up at the table, looking defiance at her, on account of some interference with his strong self-will. The moment the boy saw his mother, his countenance changed, and a look of confusion took the place of anger.

"Come over to my room, Clarence," she said, in a low voice; there was sadness in its tones, that made him feel sorry that he had given vent so freely to his ill-temper.

"What was the matter, my son ?" Mrs. Hartley asked, as soon as they were alone, taking Clarence by the hand, and looking steadily at him.

66

Aunt Mary would n't help me when I asked her." "Why not?"

"She would help Henry first."

"No doubt she had a reason for it. Do you know

her reason?"

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"She said he was youngest." Clarence pouted out his lips, and spoke in a very disagreeable tone. "Don't you think that was a very good reason "I've as good a right to be helped first as he has."

"Let us see if that is so. You and Marien and Henry came in from school, all hungry, and anxions for your dinners. Marien is oldest-she, one would suppose, from the fact that she is oldest, would be better able to feel for her brothers, and be willing to

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Do

No, ma'am."

Did Marien complain?"

66 No, ma'am."

you

"No one complained but my unhappy Clarence. know why you complained? I can tell you, as I have often told you before. It is because you indulge in very selfish feelings. All who do so, make themselves miserable. If, instead of wanting Aunt Mary to help you first, you had, from a love of your little brother, been willing to see him first attended to, you would have enjoyed a real pleasure. If you had said- Aunt Mary, help Harry first,' I am sure Henry would have said, instantly- No, Aunt Mary, help brother Clarence first.' How pleasant this would have been; how happy would all of us have felt at thus seeing two little brothers generously preferring one another."

There was an unusual degree of tenderness, even sadness, in the voice of his mother, that affected Clarence. But he struggled with his feelings. When, however, she resumed, and said

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"I was going to say you 're a fool!' but I did n't. I tried hard not to let my tongue say the bad words, though it wanted to."

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Why did you try not to say them?"

Because it would have been wrong, and would have made you feel sorry. And I love you." Again the repentant boy kissed her. His eyes were full of tears, and so were the eyes of his mother.

While talking over this incident with her husband, Mrs. Hartley said,

"Were not all these impressions so light, I would feel encouraged. The boy has warm and tender feel

"I have felt quite sick all the morning. My headings, but I fear that his passionate temper and

Clarence burst into tears, and throwing his arms around his mother's neck, wept bitterly.

selfishness will, like evil weeds, completely check their growth."

has ached badlyy-so badly that I have had to lie down. I always give you your dinners when you come home, and try to make you comfortable. To-day I let Aunt "The case is bad enough, Anna, but not so bad, I Mary do it, because I felt so sick. But I am sorry hope, as you fear. These good affections are never that I did not get up, sick as I was, and do it myself-active in vain. They impress the mind with an indellithen I might have prevented this unhappy outbreak of ble impression. In after years the remembrance of my boy's unruly temper, that has made not only my them will revive the states they produced, and give head ache ten times as badly as it did, but my heart strength to good desires and intentions. Amid all his ache also-____"} irregularities, and wanderings from good, in after life, the thoughts of his mother will restore the feelings he had to day, and draw him back from evil with chords of love that cannot be broken. The good now implanted will remain, and, like ten just men, save the city. In most instances where men abandon themselves finally to evil courses, it will be found that the impressions made in childhood were not of the right kind. That the mother's influence was not what it should have been. For myself, I am sure that a different mother would have made me a different man. When a boy, I was too much like Clarence; but the tenderness with which my mother always treated me, and the unimpas

"I will try and be good, dear mother!" he said. "I do try, sometimes, but it seems that I can't." "You must always try, my dear son. Now dry up your tears, and go out and get your dinner. Or, if you would rather I would go with you, I will do so." "No, dear mother!" replied the boy, affectionately. "You are sick. You must not go. I will be good."

Clarence kissed his mother again, and then returned quietly to the dining room.

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Naughty boy!" said Aunt Mary, as he entered,sioned but earnest manner in which she reproved and looking sternly at him.

A bitter retort came instantly to the tongue of Clarence, but he checked himself with a strong effort, and took his place at the table. Instead of soothing the quick-tempered boy, Aunt Mary chafed him by her words and manner during the whole meal, and it was only the image of his mother's tearful face, and the remembrance that she was sick, that restrained an outbreak of his passionate temper.

When Clarence left the table, he returned to his mother's room, and laid his head upon the pillow where her's was resting.

"I love you, mother," he said, affectionately. "You are good. But I hate Aunt Mary."

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corrected my faults, subdued my unruly temper. When I became restless or impatient, she always had a book to read to me, or a story to tell, or had some device to save me from myself. My father was neither harsh nor indulgent towards me; I cherish his memory with respect and love. But I have different feelings when I think on my mother. I often feel, even now, as if she were near me-as if her cheek were laid to mine. My father would place his hand upon my head, caressingly, but my mother would lay her cheek against mine. I did not expect my father to do more-I do not know that I would have loved him had he done more, for him it was a natural expression of affection. But no act is too tender for a mother. Her kiss upon my cheek, her warm embrace, are all felt now, and the older I grow the more holy seem the influences that surrounded me in childhood."

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