"I can wait another year," said the young man. Mrs. Vernon shook her head. "O!" said he, “I see you think I am too old ;" and he kissed the children good-bye, and went back to his bachelor sanctum.

Mrs. Vernon sat musingly awhile. "Yes, Mary Catlin is 'a splendid girl;' yet she is not destined, at present, to be mistress of any parsonage. Inheriting her mother's gift of poesy, and her father's love of the exact sciences, and the sensibility of both, she is looking, with an eagle eye, and plumed wing, and swelling heart, toward the temple of Fame, yet with a chastened spirit that lays all her prospective trophies at the foot of the Cross. Dear, bright young creature!" At that moment she trips up the steps. She had come to make her parting visit, and to help, meanwhile, in the many, many things, that were to be done before the final departure.

Lucy Merton was over twice a-week, going home always with red eyes, and a heart utterly unreconciled to the separation. She had obtained a promise that, after all was ready for removal, the family would pass a night with her, and be started thence on their distant way.

The last Sabbath brought a crowded audience, and the place was literally a Bochim. Many tearful glances were cast at the little group in the minister's pew, whose self-possession cost a continual effort. How tender was the sermon !— how eloquent, too!-disfigured by no personalities. "I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ!" How many in that little church were living witnesses of its power!

And now followed the week of removal,-days of much manual toil, and a constant tension of the spirit's chords. It seems an occasion of general grief, though it may be there is secret joy in a few uncongenial hearts. There is much proffered service; in some instances, as if to make atonement for

past neglect. The Douglasses stand aloof. They have been cool for many months. Some mischief-maker whispered, that Mrs. Vernon thinks little of their society. They would have repelled the suspicion in regard to any other friend; but the old native jealousy toward a minister's wife, confides in the slander; and here, where there is a debt of gratitude, and a tie cemented by two precious graves, they can cherish distrust and bitterness! They will find, ere long, that they never had a gentler, truer friend than the pastor's wife; and when she is gone, the remembrance of this requital will sorely pierce their hearts.

The last day has come at length, and the calls multiply. The little lame boy comes to return his books. Old Mrs. Hawkins sends home the cup in which the jelly was sent to her sick grandchild, and asks the loan of the "Farewell Sermon," as "her rheumatis would n't let her get out to meetin'."

Mr. Nelson's little daughter came for the thornless rose promised her to plant at her mother's grave. "May be," said the child, "I'd miss of getting it, if I wait till spring; for there's no telling, father says, who 'll come after you."

Hester Allen was there all day, plying the needle, and quarrelling with herself to keep back the tears.

"O! will this day of partings ever end?" says the pastor's wife to herself, as, with burning eyes and aching head, she tries to collect her scattered thoughts for needful direction about the household stuff,--and still the confusion multiplies. The children are wearied out. Allie is trying to help. Rose is wandering through the blockaded rooms, and bemoaning to her dolly, that "there is nowhere to stay." And little Carrie is fast asleep on a pile of shawls in a corner of what was once the bed-room.

And still, amid the packing of trunks and the moving of boxes, the leave-taking goes sorrowfully on;-here with noisy

lamentation, and there with a silent pressure of the lip and hand,—and more than once, with a parting gift and a farewell note, which will be read to-morrow with full eyes and a fuller heart.

Susan Brown and Hester are the last to leave; and they have taken the monthly rose and the japonica.

And now they are all gone. Mary has wept so much, she wonders if the fount of tears within will ever fill again.

The goods at last are sent off. Mr. Merton's carriage has long waited at the door; and Captain Brown has started with the trunks in his lumber-wagon, first giving Mary a "V," saying, "Money answereth all things." It is just at sunset. The children are already in the carriage, and Edward is attending to some last thing, which always appears after everything is done. Mary stands before the window of her own room ;that window from which she has watched the changing seasons of seven fleeting years, whose echoes now come back to her ear -"a dirge-like song, half bliss, half woe!" The sunset glow is on the mountain side, whose forests, from base to crest, are tinged with the first autumnal hues, contrasting with the clumps of evergreen that rise distinct, like the changeless hopes of a better world, 'mid the brilliancy and decay of this. The sky is beautiful with violet and gold. The church is intercepted by twin-elms, above which the spire is visible; while, beneath their drooping foliage, is caught the glimpse of many a marble pillar, in the place of graves. The eyes that gazed upon this scene were sorrowful, yet clear. Tears had flowed before, and they may come afterward; but now, there must be a last, undimmed lock, to daguerreotype every feature of the dear spot, for future yearnings of the heart. And now the gaze fastens on objects nearer still,-the maples on each side the avenue, the little nursery of fruit, the flowering shrubs and rose-vines, the leafy arbour, the bordered walks,-all, all was

their own handiwork. Not a vegetable growth, but they had started, and watched, and nursed. The garden blooms are nipped by the early frost. They will put forth anew at the breath of another spring; but who can love them so well as they, or cherish them so tenderly? Does she think of this, as she leans her head wearily against the sash, yet does not turn away? Ay, and of many a sweeter, holier link beside, binding her very soul to the spot! The sky pales; all hues of the mountain merge in the solemn tint of the evergreen; the evening wind begins its soft, sad cadence among the pines; the voice of the brook, low, yet relentless, murmurs, On, on!" The moon is up, and shines into the pensive face, suddenly upturned to the sky. Her hands draw nearer, and clasp closely; and she instinctively turns toward her wonted place of prayer. Bare walls and the naked floor meet her eye. No matter, the prayer is in her heart, and Jesus can read it there. A moment more, and Edward gently, tenderly draws her hand within his arm, and silently leads her to the carriage. As it turns away, she looks back once more, and catches sight of a straggling branch of honeysuckle, that has escaped from its fillet, and is swinging up and down, over the doorway, in the freshening breeze. It seems to her the spirit of the deserted parsonage, waving a sorrowful adieu,

66

CHAPTER XLI.

"Sunrise will come next;

The shadow of the night is passed away."

Courage you travel through a darksome cave;
But still, as nearer to the light you draw,

Fresh gales will meet you from the upper air,
And wholesome dews of heaven your forehead lave,
And darkness lighten more, till full of awe
You stand in the open sunshine unaware!"

"Thou dwell'st on sorrow's high and barren place,
But round about the mount, an angel guard,-
Chariots of fire, horses of fire, encamp,

To keep thee safe for heaven."

LET us follow on to the suburbs of the city. In that brick hotel, four stories high, we find our Mary, with her little girls, boarding till arrangements can be made for housekeeping. Allie is put away to school; and as the new church edifice is not quite ready for dedication, the pastor elect postpones his inauguration, and takes the interval for a visit to his old chum, Frederick Morton. He is much in need of recreation, and so is Mary; but they cannot both go and take the children, for the purse is low. She is, therefore, staying patiently behind,—very lonely, 'mid brick walls and stranger faces. How does her heart long for many a familiar face,-ay, for some whom she never more may greet on earth!

O, the irrepressible yearning for a buried friend! for the well-remembered footsteps, that always sent a thrill of pleasure to our bosom; for the eyes, into which we were wont to gaze as in a book, and read the soul; for the voice, that was ever sweet music to our hearts, whose echoes ever and