ported himself by hunting and gambling; would often be gone weeks at a time from his home, leaving her in charge of his wife, who watched her most strictly, and often put her in confinement lest she should escape.

This she had tried several times, but had been detected and severely reprimanded, and had been beaten most cruelly for the attempt. A stranger once called and remained over night, when she related part of her story to him, and begged him to take her to her mother. This coming to the ears of Smithers, the name of her captor, he threatened to kill her if ever she mentioned to any one again that she was other than their own child.

She had not dared to allude to her sorrow after that; had given up all hope of ever returning home, and pining with grief, was taken with a violent fever. For several days it was uncertain whether she would recover; but a change occurring for the better, Smithers determined to settle further up the river. Purchasing a tract above St. Louis, he was on his way thither with his wife and Mary, when our meeting so fortunately occurred. He had at times been unkind to her, but his treatment generally was gentle and mild. His design was evidently to rear her as his own child.

This was her story. She told me of her bitter grief, her sleepless nights, her burning tears, her thoughts of her broken-hearted mother, and wild anguish at the prospect of never meeting that mother again. Poor child, how

fondly she clung to me-how she hung upon my lips as I talked of her mother and her home. A lovelier child never lived. Her eyes were more beautiful than ever, contrasted as they were by the deeper paleness of her and her voice was like a soft whisper from the

cheek better land.

I was unable to send word to T. of my adventure more speedily than my own progress; so I reached the vicinity of the town without any one dreaming of my presence, much less the happy intelligence I should bring with me. Stopping at a farm house about a mile from the town, I left my charge in the care of the good folks, who were as much astonished at the sight of Mary as if she had dropped from the sky, and proceeded to the village. I went immediately to the house of the lonely widow. It was late when I entered, softly, the unfastened door. The widow was sitting bending over an opened Bible, whose leaves were blistered with many tears. She had changed much since I had left a few months before. Her cheek was furrowed with deeper lines, and the traces of grief were more plainly visible. It was evident she was sinking under the weight of sorrow accumulated upon her soul. She started when I mentioned her name, and seemed greatly surprised at my early return. I was always one of her warm friends, and she welcomed me gladly home. After spending an hour, and answering and asking many general questions, I gradually introduced the subject nearest my heart, as gently as possible.

Alluding to the child's disappearance, I inquired if any

She replied with a

flood of tears. But

thing had ever been heard of her. deep sigh, No, no; then burst into a soon added, "I shall see her soon; I shall see her soon in Heaven!" I told her it was possible she might meet her again upon the earth, and spend many happy days yet in her child's love. She expressed surprise at my remark, and asked my meaning. I cautiously then unfolded the fact of the child's safety, and her being in the neighborhood.

The joy of the poor widow is beyond description. At first I thought she could not recover from the shock the information gave her. But she did recover, and right happy too, was that heart, which a day before was crushed with grief. But how shall I describe the happy meeting next day! The long, long, fond embrace. The joyful shouts of the villagers; the full, overpowering emotion of the child. Never was a happier mother; never was a more blessed child; never was a brighter home, and never was a little village so full of glad hearts, and joyful surprise, as the same smiling T., on the Maryland shore! “The dead was alive, the lost was found."

Years have passed since the above events occurred; years of gladness and of sorrow; years, with their many changes and many blessings.

If

any of our friends should chance to journey amid the snow white sands of the Peninsula, and will take the pains

to inquire for the little village of T., they will be well rewarded for all their trouble if they should honor it for a day with their presence. In passing through its suburbs they will observe a beautiful cottage, half hidden amid the vines and shrubbery which surround it, sleeping on a little eminence just beyond the old church. It is the prettiest house in the village, and is the residence of my fine friend, Mrs. T. At the door they will observe a tall, graceful maiden of nineteen summers. She is the belle of the shore,

the affianced bride of the son of the late governor. It is the widow's only child; it is Mary, the Lost Child of the Pines.

THE DELUGE — AN INCIDENT.

BY REV. W. S. STUDLEY.

MANY a time has the sun gone down in beauty on the earth, And shed its last, its parting ray, on scenes of riotous

mirth,

Where men were gathered at festive boards, or in haunts of shameless sin,

Unheedful of the eternal morn their folly was ushering in. 'T was thus in the early march of time,

When men were sunk in the depths of crime;
When the fount of the deep was 'broken up,
And the deluge buried the mountain top.

Men had mocked at the warning voice of him who was sent to them in love;

They had scorned the builder of the ark when he pointed

them above;

They persisted in their course of sin,

Till the terrible whirlpool sucked them in.
That, indeed, was an awful hour.

As the waters flooded the homes of earth,
The serpent and ravenous beast came forth,