He stood a moment in profound amazement, and then going to her, raising her, and drawing her to his bosom, "My sweet Mary," said he, "why is this; why these tears; tell me my love; what is it that troubles you?" "My dear father," answered Mary, kissing his cheek, "do not be disturbed on my account; there is much sweetness mingled with the bitterness of these tears, for they are, I humbly hope, the tears of repentance, which my Savior's own blessed hand will, I trust, ere long wipe away." "Tears of repentance!" said her father almost angrily; "Where did you learn this cant? What sins have you to repent of?" "O speak not in this way, my father," answered Mary, her tears in spite of herself gushing forth; "ask not what sins I have to repent of! Oh! have I not forgotten my Creator, the giver of all my mercies all my life long? Have I not rejected the Savior who died for me? And can there be greater sins than these?" "Well, Mary," said Mr. Moreland, with some severity, and putting her from him as he spoke, "if you have adopted these fanatical notions, I fear I must bid farewell to the happiness I have hitherto enjoyed in you; for you will learn to despise your father, if he cannot think and feel as you do on the subject of religion." "My own dear father, how can you think that the religion of this blessed book," laying her hand on the Bible as she spoke, "can make me forget my duty to you; for does it not inculcate the purest principles, the warmest affections and the most exemplary conduct? O, I trust that your happiness will be dearer than ever to my heart, and that it will more than ever be the study of my life to promote it." Mr. Moreland was softened. "Adopt what notions you will, Mary," said he, "only let me see your face dressed with smiles once more. can bear anything better than to see you unhappy. As to your being more dutiful and affectionate than you have hitherto been, I do not desire it."

He left the room as he spoke, and Mary falling on her knees, again poured forth a prayer, devout and ardent, that God in his mercy would teach her beloved father the same blessed truths, that he was teaching her. The blessed hopes and consolations of the gospel soon made her as happy as her fond father could wish, and she again became almost the entire source of his own happiness.

One morning, as he entered the breakfast room, he inquired if she had a ticket for the ball that evening Mary answered in the affirmative. "Well, I hope you mean to go I know dancing used to be one of your favorite amusements, and balls are not frequent in this retired village." "No, father, I do not mean to go." "Not mean to go, Mary? This comes, I suppose, from your foolish and fanatical religious notions. Is it possible that you think dancing sinful?" "My dear father," answered his daughter, tears filling her eyes at the severity with which he spoke to her, "I do not wish to enter into a discussion with you upon the sinfulness of public dancing; but I would say that I have no inclination to go; that I would very much prefer staying at home and reading to you; and surely you will not drive me from you," added she, taking his hand, "unless you are tired of my company. And if you are tired of it just now, I will put on my cloak and hat, and go and see poor blind Sarah, who is, I hear, quite sick. So good morning." She left the room, and her father soon saw her fairy form tripping over the green meadows in the direction of Sarah's house. "There must be something more in religion," thought he, as he looked after her, "than I supposed, or my child is strangely deluded. But if it is a delusion, it is a delusion so delightful, that I could almost wish to fall into it myself; for never saw I a counten..nce more radiant with peace and happiness, since that period of sadness which so much troubled me. And then her indifference to worldly pleasures; 'tis passing strange! What if after all she should be right, and I have been in an error all my days? What have been her sins, on account of which she suffered so much compared with mine ?" Strange as it may seem, these were the first serious thoughts Mr. M. ever had on a subject involving his eternal interests; and these were almost as evanescent as the passing moment. It was reserved for him to drink again of the bitter cup of sorrow, even to the very dregs; but that cup of bitterness was, through the mercy of a long-suffering God, for the healing of his soul. The single flower he had so long and fondly cherished, and whose loveliness and fragrance were every day increas ing, began to droop and fade; and it soon became evident,

that ere long it was to be transplanted to a fairer garden, to bloom in richer beauty, under the immediate eye of a heavenly parent. And never did the lovely spirit of reli gion appear more attractive than in her, at this period. The peace and joy of a heart staid on God shone triumphant on the brow, lighting up her pale sweet face with an unearthly brightness; and if an expression of pain sometimes disturbed its serenity, it was chased away in a moment by an affectionate smile, if she saw her father was observing her; so that he was often cheated with the hope that she was not so ill as he feared, and that he might yet see that face blooming with health, as it was bright with happiness. But soon these hopes were entirely at an end, for he had the inexpressible anguish of seeing her disease gaining rapid ground, and her strength daily growing less.

One afternoon, when reclining as usual, on a sofa, which she preferred generally to the bed; and whilst her father, who scarcely ever left her, was seated by her side, she, for the first time, mentioned her extreme weakness, and the probable nearness of her departure. As soon as his emotion would permit, Mr. Moreland said, "But what shall I do without thee, my Mary? How shall I sustain life when thou art goue; for thou art all in all to me, my only hope and joy !" O, my father, fly to the merciful Redeemer, who has been so compassionate to me, pardoning my sins and taking from me, a poor weak girl, all fear of death, by filling my soul with such heavenly hopes and consolations as I cannot describe. He alone can support you. In him you will find all the happiness you can desire, and such as you never tasted before. Promise me, father," added she, her eyes filling with tears, and her lips quivering with emotion, "that you will seek the mercy of God in Christ Jesus; that you will read the Bible every day, and pray over it for his heavenly teaching. O, remember it was your daughter's last request, made with her dying lips. Do you promise this, my father?"

How could a father refuse anything to a daughter so beloved, at such an hour? He gave her the most sacred assurances, that with the help of God, he would endeavor to do as she desired; and begging her to compose herself

and try to sleep a little, as she seemed much exhausted by the earnestness with which she had been speaking, he retired to the window. It was one of the sweetest and calmest evenings of summer. The sun was tinging with his own glory the few fleecy clouds near the horizon, and all above and all below seemed to speak forth the praise of God. Mr. Moreland gazed upon the lovely scene before him, and softened by Mary's touching conversation, he felt that the "earth was full of the goodness of the Lord," and that he was infinitely worthy to be loved and obeyed by all his intelligent creatures. He was amazed at his own stupidity and hardness of heart in never feeling this before; and he wondered still more at the patience and forbearance of God toward him. A gentle sigh from his daughter reached his ear, and in a moment every object but the dear sufferer was forgotten, and he was by her side. Apparently she was sweetly slumbering; her eyes were gently closed, and her cheek faintly flushed. He gazed a moment, and the thought thrilled through his heart, that there was a stillness there, too deep for sleep the most profound. He put his hand on her pulse and to her heart. It was as he had feared; all was silent for ever. A groan of agony burst from him, and then sinking on his knees, he poured forth in broken sentences his full soul to God. He prayed that he might be supported in this hour of utmost need; and above all, that he might be enabled to perform the promise he had made to his departed Mary, and devote what yet remained of life to his God. He arose from his knees with his feelings calm and subdued, and throwing himself on the precious but lifeless form before him, he kissed again and again her forehead, cheek, and lips. "Blessed saint," he at length exclaimed, "thy God has dealt very gently with thee, in removing thee from a world whose rude storms have so long beat upon thy father's devoted head, before even the winds of heaven had visited thy cheek too roughly. And O, my God!" he continued, raising his streaming eyes to Heaven, "if I may at last attain that haven of rest, to which gentle breezes have wafted this loved one, I shall praise thee forever, that even by storm and tempest I was driven thither."

Trust in Providence.

a remarkable Money also was Hunger, aching

ON John's River, in the county of Burke, there lived a worthy old gentleman by the name of Copening. He was a man well at ease in point of worldly substance, and was known far and near for his charity and hospitality. There happened in the year scarcity of provisions, especially grain. scarce, and times every way hard. maddening hunger, was felt by a few in every neighborhood; and in some cases, we have heard of its proceeding to starvation; but to the honor of our country, and to the honor of human nature, be it said, these cases were extremely rare. In these difficult times, however, old Mr. Copening happened to have a large and well-filled corn crib, which for a long time he would not open: grain became scarce, the prices rose higher, and still the old man held up his corn, as some supposed, for a higher price. At length Mr. Copening began to let his corn go; but money could not buy it--to those who had money he would say, "You can get something to preserve life for your money; there are many who have no money, and being without food, they must perish, unless those who are blessed with the means shall feed them." Of course, the number who came without money and put up piteous tales was great. But this was foreseen, and before he had opened his crib, Copening had taken pains to find out who were really objects requiring his assistance. A man, bringing a bag with him, came to Copening from a distant neighborhood, and told the usual story of wife and children being without bread, and being sorely wrought with hunger, &c. ; but no corn was to be had: and the disappointed man, with a heavy heart, turned his steps homeward, and for a time was no more thougnt of. İn the course of the afternoon, however, word came to old Mr. Copening, that a suspicious looking stranger, with a bag on his shoulder, was seen lurking about his premises; a few particulars more satisfied him that was the applicant for charity, who had visited him that morning, and .hat he had a design to rob his crib that night; accordingly, himself and another of his family secreted themselves and waited events. But they did not wait long