Then he mutter'd half to himself, but I know that I heard him say,

"All very well-but the good Lord Jesus has had His

day."

Had? has it come? It has only dawn'd. It will come by and by,

Oh! how could I serve in the wards if the hope of the world was a lie?

How could I bear with the sights and the loathsome smells of disease,

But that He said, "Ye do it to me, when you do it to these"?

So he went.

And we passed to this ward where the younger children are laid:

Here is the cot of our orphan, our darling, our meek little maid;

Empty, you see, just now! we have lost her who loved her so much

Patient of pain, tho' as quick as a sensitive plant to the

touch;

Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often moved me to

tears,

Hers was the gratefullest heart I have found in a child of her years

Nay, you remember our Emmie; you used to send her the flowers;

How she would smile at 'em, play with 'em, talk to 'em hours after hours!

They that can wander at will where the works of the Lord are reveal'd

Little guess what joy can be got from a cowslip out of the field;

Flowers to these "spirits in prison" are all they can know of the spring,

They freshen and sweeten the wards like the waft of an angel's wing;

And she lay with a flower in one hand and her thin hands crost on her breast

Wan, but as pretty as heart can desire, and we thought her at rest,

Quietly sleeping-so quiet, our doctor said, "Poor little

dear,

Nurse, I must do it to-morrow; she'll never live thro' it, I fear."

I walked with our kindly old doctor as far as the head of the stair,

Then I return'd to the ward; the child didn't see I was there.

Never since I was nurse had I been so grieved and so

vext!

Emmie had heard him. Softly she called from her cot to the next,

"He says I shall never live thro' it, O Annie! what shall I do ?"

Annie consider'd.

66 was you,

"If I," said the wise little Annie,

I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me, for,

Emmie, you see,

It's all in the picture there: 'Little children should

come to me""—

(Meaning the print that you gave us, I find that it always can please

Our children-the dear Lord Jesus with children about His knees.)

66

Yes, and I will," said Emmie, "but then if I call to

the Lord,

How should He know that it's me? such a lot of beds in the ward!"

That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she considered and said:

Emmie, you put out your arms, and you leave 'em outside on the bed,

The Lord has so much to see to! but, Emmie, you tell it Him plain,

It's the little girl with her arm lying out on the counterpane."

I had sat three nights by the child-I could not watch for her four

My brain had begun to reel-I felt I could do it no

more.

That was my sleeping night, but I thought that it never would pass.

There was a thunder-clap once, and a clatter of hail on the glass,

And there was a phantom cry that I heard as I tost

about,

The motherless bleat of a lamb in the storm and the

darkness without.

My sleep was broken besides with dreams of the dreadful knife

And fears for our delicate Emmie, who scarce would escape with her life;

Then in the gray of the morning it seem'd she stood by me and smiled,

And the doctor came at his hour, and we went to see the child.

He had brought his ghastly tools; we believed her asleep again,

Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying out on the counterpane;

Say that His day is done! Ah, why should we care what they say?

The Lord of the children had heard her, and Emmie

had past away.

LORD TENNYSON.

THE TWO RUNAWAYS.

(From the Century)
[Abridged.]

YEARS agentric bachelor planter, known by the

EARS ago there dwelt in Middle Georgia a wealthy

name of Major Crawford Worthington. He was the owner of a number of slaves, to whom, on the whole, he was very kind. One of them, named Isam, had been with him from childhood; in fact, they had sort of grown up together. Isam had an annual runaway freak, which usually lasted about a fortnight. The strangeness of this action on the part of his slave troubled the Major more than a little, not that he cared an iota for his loss of time, nor for his bad example, but it galled him to think that there was anything in connection with a negro

which he could not fathom. At last the Major struck upon a plan whereby he should solve the mystery, and he accordingly threatened Isam with dire punishment if he should go off another time without letting him know. The threat had the desired effect; the Major was duly informed; whereupon, to the astonishment of the negro, the master signified his intention to accompany him on his expedition, and accordingly the two runaways started. For nearly two weeks they remained in the woods, only a few miles distant from their home, where they lived in a semi-civilized state, hunting, fishing, and foraging, both, indeed, enjoying themselves hugely. A day or two prior to their return they had been out foraging for dinner, and were on their way to camp, heavily laden with their spoils. The two had just reached the edge of the canebrake, beyond which lay the camp, and were entering the narrow path, when a magnificent buck came sweeping through, and collided with Isam with such force and suddenness as to crush and spatter his watermelons into a pitiful ruin, and throw the negro violently to the ground. Instantly the frightened man seized the threatening antlers and held on, yelling lustily for help. The deer made several ineffectual efforts to free himself, during which he dragged the negro right and left without difficulty, but, finding escape impossible, turned fiercely upon his unwilling captor, and tried to drive the terrible horns through his writhing body.

“O Lord! O Lord!" screamed Isam; “O Lord! Mass' Craffud, cum holp me tu'n dis buck loos'."

The laugh died away from Major Worthington's lips. None knew better than he the danger into which Isam had plunged. Not a stick, brush, stone, or weapon of