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extended before the doorway, as though thrown down in the very act of leaving the shed, was the cold inanimate figure of a woman with a baby in her arms. Strong was the grasp of maternal tenderness, even in death; they could hardly unloose the cold stiff fingers that were clasped so firmly together round the little one; mother and child both dead, quite dead; yet the poor peasants could hardly believe it, and were not to be won from their fruitless cares, until another helpless object claimed them. In the farther corner of the hut, sleeping securely under two beams, that in falling in, supported each other, reposed a little fair one, still unhurt by the cold and by the tempest, if they might judge from the faint, very faint tinge of colour that yet warmed her baby lips. They roused her, and a wailing cry for her mother, gave a pang to every one of the kind hearts who felt how utterly vain was the cry. To their beloved pastor the little one was confided, and the others, bearing among them the bodies of mother and babe, reascended the path that led to their mountain village.

On the following morning the dead were decently interred, and the poor little homeless and motherless one was taken to the hospitable hearth of Papa Claude. Due inquiry was made in all the adjoining villages, but none seemed to know of the way farers, and at last it was concluded that the poor woman, evidently very poor from her tattered and worn garments, was indeed a homeless beggar travelling, it might be, to her distant canton.

Such an event occurring in such a secluded spot, excited much discussion, and the only individual who appeared unmoved on the occasion, was the being to

whom the fatal event was of most importance—the child, the rescued child. Too young to feel her loss, the little one readily received and returned the caresses of the kind pastor, and had scarcely been domesticated a week with him before he began to hope ardently that no tardy relations might appear to claim his adopted one. He called her Lily, not because of her exquisite fairness, but because Lily was a name enshrined in his very heart of hearts. It was the name he had loved to speak in bye-past days, when he was a fond and happy husband and father; and fervently, most fervently did he thank his Heavenly Father for sending to him this little wanderer to fill up the void in his long-desolate heart. Never once did it enter the mind of good Papa Claude, that his trifling salary, scarcely sufficient for his own support, could ill bear the additional burthen imposed upon it; he trusted to Providence for his daily bread, and trusted not in vain : his little school,-for like all these mountain preachers, he instructed, himself, the younglings of his flock, was increased by the sons of some opulent farmers at Brigg, and his own parishioners, eager to throw in their mite towards the work of charity, seldom visited him without bringing some part of the produce of their little farms, for the child of the snow-storm. And the little Lily flourished under their care; she grew up from day to day, gentle and fair, and modest as the flower whose name she bore, and, alas ! as unmindful of the benefits she received.

Many had been the trials, of the good Papa's life: he had been suddenly reduced from opulence to penury; he had buried in one day the wife he had loved

from infancy, and the child who was part of his own existence; he had exchanged the luxuries and refinements of a city for a rude and laborious life among peasants, who scarcely understood his very language; and yet, it might be, that not one of these trials inflicted so severe a pang on his inmost soul as it felt when the consciousness first burst upon him, that the little one whom he had promised himself should console him for all, was indeed, in the touching language of that mountain spot, an "Innocent," a beautiful, a gentle child; but one whom he could never teach to raise her little hands in prayer towards Him who had so wonderfully preserved her. But did the pastor for this reason banish the child from his home, or from his heart? Oh, no; his actions, though often proceeding from feeling, were guided by principle, by that pure and holy principle which leads men to study and follow the dictates of a will, holier and purer than their own. He regarded his little nursling as more peculiarly thrown in her helplessness on his protection by the hand of Providence, and sought the more earnestly to anticipate and provide for her wants and wishes.

He loved well to lead her forth in the bright summer weather, and wearied never of telling her the names of the flowers and insects again and again,' albeit his labour was a vain labour; and when Lily stamped with childish earnestness, and with passionate tears, begged him to gather the blue gentians and put them again in the sky, whence they had fallen, he chided not her waywardness, but caressed and gently soothed her into peace.

One of the villagers gave Lily a white goat, and

henceforward it was her constant companion, and it was a daily amusement to wreath flowers for her goat's neck, and to lead him to the sweet mountain springs and short pasture. Sometimes she was found by the pastor sleeping in the bosky dells that abounded near their dwelling, wearied with the heat, and never, never alone, for an instinct of gratitude kept her four-footed companion near at hand. Well did Papa Claude love to watch his darling while she slumbered, for she was wont, when sleeping, to smile and murmur broken sounds, and the pastor loved to think that her spirit might perhaps be permitted to wander in dreams towards those bright and blessed regions, of which, waking, she could not conceive, and oh, how fervently would he then pray, that ere he should himself be summoned to depart, his efforts might be rewarded with one-only one gleam of intellect in the child, to show they had not been all utterly vain!

One sweet summer morning, Lily, instead of wandering forth to her usual mountain haunts, sat alone and dejected, her face buried in her hands, on a garden seat in the little enclosure behind the pastor's dwelling;-garden it might scarcely be called, for, often as flowers had been placed therein, and duly trained and tended, the child, in the perversity of an unoccupied mind, had uprooted them; so that at length the smiling parterre became a mere grasscovered terrace, green and retired, and cool, the pastor said, and therefore quite as pleasant for his hour of morning and evening retirement, as though decked with the choicest of their Alpine treasures.

"Are you not going into the sunshine, Lily?" said

he, on the morning in question. "It is a bright and cheerful day."

"No, no;" said the child, raising her hand, and pointing to the blue sky above; "there is a storm in the air,—it will presently be here."

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"No fear of a storm to-day, Lily," replied her friend. "Come up these steps with me; we will to the terrace, on the roof of the house; there you can see all around; there is not the shadow of a cloud on the bright blue sky."

But Lily was not to be persuaded or moved; she answered again, "There is a storm coming;" and then rocking to and fro, she began singing a low, mournful melody.

So the pastor went his way; but being anxious respecting the child, he would not begin a long walk he had projected until he had seen her again.

In something less than an hour, he again stood beside her. She was still singing her sad melody; but she broke off at his approach.-" Hark!" she exclaimed, whisperingly; "do you not hear it rumbling?-Save me, save me!"

In vain Papa Claude strained his listening ears;— not a sound broke on the quiet summer noon, and the sky was still cloudless: he carried the child down in his arms to the door of the house, thinking to change the current of her ideas.

"Hark!" she exclaimed, as soon as she had freed herself from his arms;-"Do you not hear it? do you not hear it?"

And a low, rumbling sound, as of rushing waters, was heard, not only by Papa Claude, but by all the

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