a sister.

CHAPTER XIV.

The Dream Fulfilled.

'Calm on the bosom of thy God,

Fair spirit, rest thee now!

E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod,

His seal was on thy brow.

Dust to its narrow house beneath,

Soul to its place on high!

They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.'

JESSIE felt her young mistress's death to be a very bitter arrow from the hand of God, and she mourned and wept for her as if for It was hard for Hugh to console her. She could only think as yet of the cruel and bitter parting, of the sudden call that had come to one so young and full of life; and her tears flowed very fast when she thought of the bright familiar face now hid from her sight for ever.

'Not for ever, Bessie,' said Hugh; 'we will try to follow her; her footsteps will serve to guide us to heaven.'

And with those words there rushed back to Bessie's mind the memory of a happy night, years and years ago, when she, the desolate, forlorn child, made peaceful and joyous by dead Lucy's tender care, had dreamed of an angel bending over and beckoning on her to follow. And so she told the story to her husband.

'It has all come so true, Hugh; now I think of it, I can hardly believe it was a dream. If she is as happy as I saw her then, we need not grieve for her, but only try to follow her.'

And so the vision of Lucy's kind facé in heaven, beaming down upon and waiting to welcome her, served to cheer the mourner, and raise her thoughts beyond her sorrow.

A few weeks more, and an infant awakened a new interest at the cottage. Bessie proposed with glad pride, that her little baby girl might be named Lucy. Hugh was glad to have it so; and as those parents watched the innocent slumber of their little one, they prayed that the spirit of the dead Lucy might animate the new and living one. And thus we leave this little household on bended knees, making God their guide and stay through life, and looking ever upward with the bright eye of faith, believing the promise, 'Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness, and all other things shall be added unto you.'

LUCY'S RESTING-PLACE.

221

The spring came round once more, and the grass was now green on Lucy's grave. The violets were blooming there, and the daisies looked fresh and fair spotted over the verdant turf. A cross of pure white marble marked her resting-place, and a dove with outstretched wings was emblem of the spirit that had fled to its home on high, while all around grew beautiful fragrant flowers, and a tiny wreath lay at the foot of the cross.

'What a pretty, peaceful spot! I almost wish I were here too,' said a voice in weary tones.

The speaker was Annie Seton, who with her sister had come to pay their first visit to Lucy's grave.

'Are you so tired of your gay life?' asked Emily. 'Yes, at times I feel sick of it all, and I wishwell, I don't exactly know what. I daresay I'd as soon be here as anywhere else.'

Emily had seated herself on a grassy mound, and was very thoughtful and serious. She did not seem to hear her sister's last words, for she gave no answer; but presently burying her face in her hands, she sobbed aloud.

'Emily, what has come over you? I didn't mean to distress you,' said Annie. You are weak yet, and should not have come here.'

'It is not that, Annie; I'm quite well now, and it is that that makes me sad.'

'Emily, what do you mean? do you mean to say you would rather have died?'

'Oh no,' shuddered Emily; 'I was not fit to die; but the last time I saw dear Lucy, she made me promise, if ever I got well, that I was to try and live better: and that promise comes back to me so distinctly now, and I can hear Lucy's voice ringing in my ears. When I gave her my careless promise, I little thought it would be the last words I should ever speak to her; and if ever I thought about them at all, I looked forward to having her to help me and show me the way. But now it will be very difficult, I fear; and yet I must try, or I will have no rest.'

'Mightn't we try together, Emily? I would like to help you, for I really think there was some truth in Lucy's happiness.'

'Oh, will you, Annie? If we only help one another, I think we might get on. But where shall we begin?'

Oh, there must be lots to do,' said Annie, who, glad of something new to take up her attention, set about it heart and soul. Lucy, you know, used to have Sabbath schools and every-day classes, and now there must be lots of children idle.'

'So there must; I never thought of that. Then we must try and find them all out.'

'And that will always be a beginning,' said Annie,

REFORMATION.

223

plucking the leaves from the daisies, and scattering the white petals over the sward.

But there was much to be done before that. The girls found it an easy thing to find out the desolate, the afflicted, and the needy; but it was not so easy to discover the secret sins of their own hearts, and root them out. But that was the true beginning; and through time, Emily and Annie really did effect a change in themselves and their home. The Elms was no longer a scene of discord and confusion. Soft answers turn away wrath, and loving tones smooth ruffled and irritable tempers; and so peace and happiness filled the place of strife and discontent. Annie is now a clergyman's wife, seemingly happy in her sphere; while Emily, the once peevish, fretful Emily, still lingers in her own home, where she plays the Lady Bountiful with no sparing hand. Her thoughts often turn to the playmate and companion of her childhood, the echo of whose words had been so doubly blessed to her. She followed the footsteps of angel Lucy, and so her labours of love increased and abounded.

Dear children, will not you also look around and see if there be no little work of love you can perform, no neglected one to care for, no sorrowing to cheer, or desolate to comfort, and no ignorant to teach? Those are to be found anywhere and everywhere, and what can be more beautiful than to minister to their wants?