John pointed to the place beneath the willows, where the child had used to lie.

'He's gone.'

Dick still held his hand, and looked inquiringly in his face; and John, rightly interpreting the look, went on, speaking in a low, tremulous tone, and twisting a piece of iron in his hand as he spoke :

'I knew that he must die; I felt that it must be so; that it could never have been intended that a little decrepit boy like he should grow to be a man; he could n't. But I always thought the time a great way off; a very great way off

He paused and drew the back of his hand across his eyes, and twisted the piece of iron backward and forward with great rapidity, and then went on as before:

'I did n't wish to die and leave him here alone with no one to care for him. I didn't wish that, but I hoped that somehow we might go together, and that I could have his little hand in mine even in the grave. It was foolish.

John struggled with himself for a moment, then flung the iron on the floor, and, going to the forge, turned his back upon his friend and busied himself in raking up the fire. At last, turning to Bolles, and straightening himself up, he said:

'It's all right, Dick; it's but the course of nature. Children have died, and parents have sorrowed over them before this; and time has fled, until they rested side by side; and then they met again. It has been so before; it is so now; it will be so again as long as earth is earth and man is mortal. Grief is idle: I'm but fulfilling the great law.'

John spoke bravely. He held himself up erect, and looked his friend full in the face, as if to gain his approbation of the victory which cold reason was gaining over his heart; but his words wanted the ring of the true metal.

Dick was a plain, uneducated man, with keen perceptions of right and wrong, and a blunt and open honesty of purpose which went straight. to its object; withal a kind and open heart, and had always looked up to the smith with respect and affection.

He saw the struggle of John to reason down the yearnings of nature,, but he had no sympathy with such cold philosophy.

'John,' said he, though you 're a black-smith you are a l'arned man, and I am not; you have been abroad and seen the world and the sights that are in it, and I have not; while you were getting wise, I was getting rusty, and perhaps behind the world; I don't say that I was n't; but this I do say, and this I'll insist on, too,' said he, placing his finger on the palm of his hand; if GOD gives us children, and gives us hearts to love them with, HE intends us to love them. If He takes them away, and gives us hearts to grieve for them, HE intends us to grieve for ther You might as well say when a man 's pleased he's not to laugh, and when he's hurt he's not to holler. I believe in them all; each in his proper place.'

Dick struck one hand against the open palm of the other, to drive his argument home and clinch it.

John stood some time looking on the ground, but he made no reply : and whether convinced by this argument or not, he did not say, but taking up a bar of iron he thrust it in the fire, and applying himself to the bellows, worked at it until the forge fairly roared. Dick stood looking on in silence; at last he said:

John, I came to take you home with me.' John shook his head :

'I can't go; there's another death coming soon.'

At the House?' said the other, inquiringly.

Ay and very soon. I may be wanted.'

But after that, John, after that,' urged the other, 'you'll come then?'

Perhaps I may; perhaps I may not; I cannot tell,' said John. 'I have kind friends here; perhaps I'll stay among them; perhaps I'll go abroad; I'm very restless now. My movements hereafter will be guided by another. I'm quite adrift, Dick, quite adrift.

Dick Bolles saw that to the black-smith every thing had assumed a sombre hue; and so he sat down and spent the morning with him, and by conversing with him on other subjects, gradually drew his thoughts from dwelling upon himself; and when he left him there was a smile upon his face which augured brighter hours.

Another week had flitted by. Death was on his rounds, and his gaunt shadow began to hover over the House.' From day to day Mr. Lindsey's life ebbed. From morning till night, and through the still, silent hours of darkness, when all were hushed in sleep except the solitary watcher at his bed-side, until the gray dawn of day changed to the blush of sun-rise, his struggling heart kept throbbing heavily on. Day after day the physician came and went; he gave no prescription; he left no directions, for man was powerless, and he felt that the great Conqueror was on his march, and silently watched him as one by one he sapped the foundations of life.

Strength had failed, and the sick man had taken to his bed. He knew that his disease was gaining ground. He had withstood its wear and tear with manly courage. He had struggled not to yield, not from any craven fear of death, or any wretched clinging to life for life's sake, for he had learned to look with a steady eye into the dark abyss to which he was hastening; and with his mind free and clear, and his senses calm and collected, he gathered in his energies to grapple with his fate, but he felt the chill of the dark shadow which overhung him.

The House' grew dim and dreary; and although the sun shone brightly over hill, and field, and wood-land, it did not dispel the gloom. The servants moved on tip-toe, and spoke in whispers, and constant watch was kept on the door of the sick man's room.

The bell rang furiously, and word was sent for John Biggs. Mr. Lindsey was sinking rapidly, and wished to see him. As fast as man and horse could travel, the message went; and almost as soon, the grave sad face of the smith was seen at the door of the House. He was told to go up at once, for there was no time to waste: moments were of more worth than gold now.

Robust, gigantic, a personification of strength and sinew, of rugged,

stalwart, iron life, he entered the sick-chamber, himself and all about him a type of earth, except the light which beamed like an emanation from heaven in his honest eyes. Mr. Lindsey was bolstered up in bed, his temples sunken, his eyes deep-set and glassy, and his fingers thin and long. By him stood his child, and at the bed-side sat a nurse. He beckoned John to him: he paused to gather strength, then fixed his earnest eyes on John.

So little Tom is gone?'

The color deepened in John's cheek, and he looked upon the floor. 'He is.'

Again a pause to gather in his breath.

My sand is running fast, John: I shall soon be with him.' The black-smith compressed his lips, but did not speak.

Mr. Lindsey took John's hand in his and placed it on the head of his boy. He half rose from the pillow which supported him. His words were calm and deliberate, and strong Will was struggling with Fate as he spoke.

'I've sent for you again, John, before I die, to remind you of your promise.'

There is no need, Sir,' replied John; 'I'll never forget it, never!' 'I thank you,' replied Mr. Lindsey. It's a heavy responsibility that you have taken upon you.'

'I know it is, Sir,' said the smith, earnestly; but I trust in God to give me strength to bear it.'

That's right, John; and if ever in the future your resolution fail, or my boy should weary out your patience with waywardness or perseverance in wrong, when friends have fallen off, and the world turns its back upon him, do you look back through the dim past to this hour and to me; and when you do so, forgive him, and shelter and protect him, for then he 'll want a friend the most.'

It was a fearful effort to speak those slow, earnest words; to battle with the enemy which was griping at his heart; but he kept it down until he heard John's answer.

'I will.'

And then he sank heavily back, the light faded from his eye, and he spoke no more, but left John standing with his hand upon the child's head.

John waited to hear if he had any thing more to say, but he did not speak, nor seem to notice him; and John stole out of the room, and took his station in the hall below.

Word soon came that Mr. Lindsey was sinking fast. The members of the household gathered near the door. It soon was said that he noticed no one; and several of the older ones who had lived with him from childhood, and had grown old and gray, and decrepit in his service, went in and drew back in the dark corners of the room, watching the ebbing of his life.

John still remained in the hall, watching the faces of those who passed him, and ready to go up if he should be called again. Once or twice, as the door of the room was opened, he thought he heard the dying man's voice, but it was fancy: he was not sent for again.

The shadows of evening were coming on, and the window-curtains in the room were opened, and the old man with his filmy eye gazed out through the window and over the distant landscape. Hill and valley, meadow and forest, were spread before him. The scenes of his boyhood, manhood, and age—what dreams of the past were gathered about them, and what silent memories were crowding through that clogging brain! The shadows of evening are deepening; more dull and heavy is the beating of his heart. The twilight is darkening; the dull, filmy eye still-looks out, but not upon the landscape, for it seems to stretch beyond it, and to gaze into the far-off distant sky. Still the struggling heart is striving laboriously and hard to retain its hold on life. The twilight has darkened almost into night, and still the dim eye looks out. Was that a cloud that swept across the sky, and flung its shadow over the face of the dying man? Bring lights, for it is dark, dark indeed; the darkness of the valley of shadows has flung its pall over the place: the struggle is past, and that strong heart is conquered, and at rest for ever!

John Biggs left the House, and went along the road which led to his home but oh! how vivi lly rose up in his memory the past images of those days when first he had met him who had now gone from earth for ever! He recollected a crushed and broken-down man, seated in a miserable, ill-furnished room, with his head resting between his hands, almost ready to follow the counsel given to the patriarch of old, Curse GOD and die.' He remembered, too, a patient, loving face at his side, watching his look with anxious eyes, and breathing hope in tones which soothed him like an angel's whisper, and as it looked upward, bade him trust in GOD. And he remembered well how he had struggled hard to obey; but how difficult it was, when he saw her day by day fading at his side, and his sickly child growing wan and decrepit even in his cradle, to silence the murmurs which rose to his lips, to look through the dark vista before him, where there was no gleam of light, and yet hope on when hope seemed dead.

But the dawn came at last; a kind hand was stretched out to save him; the means of labor were placed within his reach; labor reaped its proper harvest, and the whisperings of hope became realities.

She

But where was she who had cheered him on, and with strong love had supported his sinking heart? She was sleeping with her dark lashes fringing her closed lids, her pale hands crossed upon her breast, and her face white as the fresh-fallen snow. He remembered it well. was sleeping, never again to wake on earth, and he was to journey through life alone. Tears filled the eyes of the rugged man, but memory had not done its work yet; for still amid the dim past sprang up another form, a feeble, patient child, stretching its arms to him for succor and for love.

Tom! Tom! my own little child!' muttered the black-smith, burying his face in his hands, and struggling hard to choke down the tears which rose; are we never to meet again on earth?' 'The dead rise not again here.'

It was the very hour and the very spot at which he had uttered those words, The dead rise not again here.' But did he dream, or

was his fancy running wild with him? Were the strong yearnings of his heart affecting his reason? Was the dim outline which stood in the path before him, and with its little finger pointing upward, that of his child? Could he mistake that patient, loving face?

John bowed his head as he whispered:

Tom, my own child, why art thou here?'

'Father,' replied a voice which he well knew, 'I am thy spirit-guide through life. Even as thou on earth guidedst me and leddest me on in the path toward heaven, so am I now with thee.'

John bent his head to the earth, in reverence to the little being whom he had loved and carried in his arms.

'Tom, my own dear child of earth-angel of heaven now - I'll do as you bid me.'

The child smiled, and pointed upward; and through the trees John looked up and saw the stars shining brightly in the sky, and amid them all, a planet looking down on earth, glorious and beautiful, and toward it the small hand pointed.

'There,' said he.

'Ay,' said John, there, little Tom, never to part; wait for me there, my own little angel-child, and by GoD's help, and for the love of thee, I'll struggle on till we meet again.'

He turned, but the child was gone. The same bright star was shining from the sky; and as the old man turned his tear-dimmed eyes upward, he fancied that he saw kind faces looking down at him, and beckoning him onward; and he thought he heard, in gentle tones, a voice uttered from the sky, 'Remember Harry Lindsey.'

'Ay, he's the tie which binds me to earth and heaven!' muttered the old man.

In all the hours of his after life, when troubles thickened about his path, and man and fate seemed all against him, John never forgot that hour. Whether it was a vision or a reality, it mattered not; amid all, the child-guardian from on high was ever with him to cheer him on, for ever pointing to that bright star, the promised land of their future meeting. Oh! with what humble love and reverence did he treasure up the hope and feeling that his boy was always at his side; and with what a strange mingling of parental love and child-like trust did he repose upon his promise to protect and guide him on his troubled way!

SOUL.

THE breath of GOD: a being caught
From Being's source, eternal thought,
And with this dust minutely wrought:

A harp for angel-fingers strung,
While colder hands are o'er it flung,
And only broken strains are sung:

A land-bird on a stormy deep,

Where winds o'er billows wildly sweep,
And weary pinions may not sleep:

A captive at the oar of doom,

And toiling through the deepening gloom,
And yearning, yearning for his home!