the house, by a gentleman of noble appearance. While I was yet describing them to my mother, the landlord came over, in great haste, saying that the lady was very ill, and the gentleman, Colonel Ellerie, wishing to find a quiet place to which she might be immediately removed from the confusion of a tavern, and having noticed our cottage, and made some inquiries concerning its inmates, had sent him to beg that we would try to accommodate them, and though money might not purchase such a favor, he should not ask it without giving the assurance of an ample recompense. My mother objected at first, she did not like to put herself to such inconvenience and trouble for total strangers; but when the landlord described their appearance, showing that he believed them to be above the common class, and I added a few words in favor of the plan, she consented to receive them. The parlor bed-room was opened to see that all was in order; something additional was bespoken for the dinner table, we looked in the glass to smoothe down our hair, and were ready for our stranger guests. They came in a few moments, the Colonel bearing the lady in his arms, and followed by a waiting maid with a few necessary articles, for the bulk of their baggage was to remain at the tavern, as our small rooms could not well afford space for it. The invalid was laid directly upon the bed, and though she could not speak, a sweet smile showed that she was pleased, and grateful for our kindness, and her husband pressed my mother's hand, and spake gently to me, and before they had been with us a half hour, I was warmly in love with the lady, and the gentleman's fast friend for life. She was so very beautiful! so angelic, I may say, in appearance; and he was so tender in his care for her, showing in every look and act the most devoted affection. They were English people, travelling for pleas ure. Though constitutionally frail, she had never before been alarmingly ill; but a few miles from the village she was suddenly attacked with hemorrhage from the lungs, which, though not violent, had left her in this very weak and dangerous condition. Our physician, a wise and worthy man, looked grave when my mother questioned him concerning his patient, and though he did not then say there was no hope, a few days after he told her it was not probable that she would ever leave the house again. Days passed, and there was little amendment. She could only sit up in the bed, supported with pillows; but after three long weeks she grew a little stronger, and was able to be moved to the easy chair; and finally her husband ventured to carry her into the parlor, where she reclined upon the sofa, and enjoyed the change of place. How happy we were to see her there! how eagerly we sought to beguile her weariness! how earnestly we desired that she might be restored to health! She was but three or four years older than myself, and at least ten younger than her husband. I had never before known one so lovely both in person and disposition. She was fair as a lily; her eyes were blue as heaven, and as serene and holy in expression, and her beautiful brown hair was parted over her seraph brow, in softest satin folds. Beautiful to witness was the husband's devotion; no mother could have watched over her child more tenderly. She was like an infant in his arms, and would sit with her head resting upon his bosom, while he would chat cheerfully with her, or read the poems of favorite authors, for she loved poetry like a child of the Muse. She was passionately fond of music, and I had never prized my piano, my voice, and my talent in using them, as now when they could minister to her pleas ure. I was constantly by her side; I could not bear to leave her even at night; I had never loved any one so well beside my mother, and she saw and appreciated my affection. She would call me her "little sister," for I was rather diminutive in person, and her " good genius," because if I possibly could I would get the start of her husband in anticipating her wishes. So the time passed away, weeks, and months, and she was growing weaker day by day; nothing could save her. She had come to us early in June, and on the last day of August we buried her with the fading flowers; she who was so lovely, and so beloved! It was long ere the bereaved husband could resign himself to his loss, or leave the place where they had passed the last days of her life together. He clung to my mother and myself, as to friends who had shared his anxieties, had contributed to the comfort and happiness of the invalid, and become intimately associated with the memory of the departed. His great grief, and our deep sympathy, drew us very near together. I was like a young sister to him; he seemed to consider me as still a girl, though I was a woman in feeling and in years. He would sometimes throw his arm around my neck, and weep upon my shoulder; or when walking the floor, in agony of spirit, would draw me to him, and lean upon me, as if to find comfort and support in nearness to one who had loved his lost idol; and many times did he take me with him to visit her grave. For me it was a dangerous companionship; to be so constantly with one whose unaffected sorrow awoke that soft pity which is so near to love, and which, added to the consciousness that he found his greatest solace in my society, could not but lead me to regard him with the most tender interest. I was not then aware of the danger in which I stood. I had no thought for myself; my whole interest in life seemed centred in him; my heart yearned so passionately to bless and comfort him, like a mother's over a grieved and suffering child. Finally he left us, late in Autumn, when the skies were gray, and the leaves were fallen, and every thing in nature was dark and sad like my heart. He would soon embark for England; would return to the army, and it was not likely that we should ever meet again. When he wrung my mother's hand, and kissed me upon my cheek and forehead, at parting, he had spoken of the possibility of returning; but it was a mere possibility, it was not any thing that we could confidently expect or hope. My mother indulged me in many tears, in much sadness; she made allowance for the position in which I had been placed, and for the tenderness of my nature; but when weeks wore away, and there was no return of cheerfulness, she wondered at my sorrow. She did not know that it was the great joy and grief of my life; joy that I had been for a little time, so near the heart of one so noble; grief that I could not make his happiness, could never be any thing more to him than the gentle girl who had pitied him in his weakness, and with girlish sympathy mingled her tears with his. How much I suffered in feeling that we were forever separated, not more by distance than by his own will, no words of mine can tell. The last six months of my life were like a sad, sweet dream, which it were better to forget on awaking, but which never could be forgotten. I learned in time to appear like myself again. I did not weep, except when no one saw me; I was cheerful, dutiful; I held my place in society, and no one supposed, not even my mother, that my heart had gone through such a serious trial. Time gave me opportunities to test the fidelity of a feeling so strangely awakened. I could not endure to be seriously addressed by any one, and though among the other sex there were some few whose friendship I highly valued, there were none who could win my love. We never heard from our absent friend; we did not know but grief had killed him; and five years rolled on, leaving us still undisturbed by any great trial or change in our quiet existence; but now a day came, an ever memorable day, which brought us again together. The stage stopped as usual, and a gentleman, with a bronzed face, alighting, came directly to our door. I was at the window. I saw the stately form, the well remembered face, the hazle eyes into which I had never hoped to gaze again. It was Colonel Ellerie. O, joy too great to be calmly borne! I hastened eagerly forth to meet him, and in a moment was folded in his arms, and felt again his kisses upon cheek and brow. I led him into the little parlor, and when after casting a glance around upon familiar objects, he threw himself into his old seat upon the sofa, and buried his face in his hands, overcome with melancholy recollections, 1 sat down beside him. and soothed him as of old. My mother was not so quick to recognize him; he had left us thin and pale, but now he had more flesh upon him, and was wonderfully brown. He had been in India, in active service, and for that reason we had not heard from him; but as soon as his regiment was ordered home, he had felt a strong desire to revisit our village, and the grave of his adored wife, and the friends he had never forgotten; and so he had come to stay with us a few days, or perhaps weeks, if we would not send him away. Oh how happy I was! even now my heart bounds at the recollection of a joy so great, so unexpected! The days flew by too quickly that gave us such a guest. No one could be a more delightful companion. He had an inexhaustible store of anecdotes and adventures to relate of the years passed in India, and like Desdemona I was a loving listener to the recital of his perils and toils. A fortnight passed away, and I had been the companion of his walks and rides, the delighted auditor of his fascinating conversation; in fact, I was constantly by his side; but one morning, while we were gathering roses upon the verandah, our village lawyer, who had lately set up an equipage, with a pair of mettlesome horses, drew up at the gate, inviting him to ride. He looked wistfully back at me as he passed out the gate, as if he did not like to leave me. I was uneasy during his absence; I could not bear to have the precious hours of his visit devoted to another. The morning wore away, and I grew impatient for his return. At last I heard voices in the street, and saw several men slowly approaching. They drew near the house. They were bearing some one in their arms. Oh, my God! It was our beloved friend; not dead, but with a broken limb. The horses had become unmanageable, had dashed the carriage to pieces, and both its occupants were frightfully injured. I comprehended it all, when I saw the sad procession enter the gate. I opened the door and window of his room, and stood there silent as a statue, and as cold and pale, when they brought him in, and laid him upon the bed. I did not faint, but a cold, dark mist seemed to envelope me, through which I saw the black future; and every nerve of my frame trembled and shrunk in my terrible agony. 66 He saw me where I stood, pale as death, but tearless and firm. There was love and pity in his glance when our eyes met, and when I went to the bed and arranged the curtains, to give more air, and brought a powerful perfume, and bathed his brow, he smiled faintly upon me, but did not speak. Then the physician came, and my mother led me from the room. I determined not to give way to any weakness which would unfit me to be with him. I prayed for strength, and eagerly swallowed the cordial which my mother offered to my lips. The interview with the physician was brief, and the patient requested that I might be called to his side. I bent over him, and gazed upon his pale and suffering face in speechless anguish. Clara," said he, "when I was in India I often thought of you, and whenever I felt lonely and sad, I wished my little friend was near to comfort me. When our campaign was over, and I returned to England and was at liberty to wander whithersoever I would, I felt irresistibly drawn towards you. I found you unchanged, and lately I have said to myself, perhaps the dear child would take pity on me, and go with me, to be the comfort and happiness of my life;' but now you see how it is; I have passed unscathed through the perils of war, to be hopelessly maimed in this peaceful village. My limb is frightfully shattered, amputation may be necessary, and now you cannot love me, for if my life is spared, I shall be a crippled, useless man!" "Not love you!" 1 exclaimed, with energy, "I have loved you these many years; but never so fondly as now, when you most need my love; and here on my knees, I call Heaven to witness that next to my God, I devote myself entirely to you!" I rose up, and clasping both his hands in t mine, pressed them to my heart, and bending down, sealed my promise with a kiss upon his wan lips. It was a sad betrothal. He tried to smile and express his satisfaction, but he was evidently suffering intensely, and it was unwise to prolong our conversation. He had refused to have his limb examined till after our interview, i and now he said I had inspired him with cour- | age to go through what was before him, and he must send me away, and have the surgeon to take my place. I offered to remain with him, and do my best to support him through the trial, but though he expressed a soldier's admiration of my firmness, he would not consent to have it put to such a test; neither would my mother, who was present, and who now led me from the room where so much was still to be suffered. It was found necessary to amputate the crushed limb, above the knee. It was the only chance for life, and he might not live, even if he survived the operation. I was not apprized of the decision till all was over; for he had desired that quick work might be made of it; and when I was again admitted into the room, after hours had passed, which seemed like ages, he was under the influence of a powerful opiate, and lay in a deep sleep, like death. I was warned by the kind physician to prepare my mind for the worst, and I tried to compass the idea, that now when he was so near me, I was about to lose him forever. For the three days that he was spared to me, I would not leave him for a moment, except when sent away by the physician, and much of solace and encouragement did we impart to each other in the midst of our suffering. What he suffered I could not know, for he suppressed all outward show of it, with a soldier's firmness. Only the pallor of his face betrayed it. Several hours before the last change, he was relieved from pain, and spoke calmly of his approaching departure. I raised his head from the pillow, and rested it upon my bosom; and thus he died, with my arms around him, and my love clinging close to the last. I was chief mourner at the grave. My mind could never recover its natural tone of cheerfulness, could never be divorced from its absorbing sorrow, and I shall be the chief of mourners to the end of my days. Hartford, Conn. M. A. H. D. Good deeds, performed by the promptings of a noble mind, are like the morning dew-drops || glittering in the sun. [This communication comes to us from a new and welcome correspondent who has been confined by sickness to her bed for nearly five years, and during that time has endured dreadful sufferings. Coming from one thus circumstanced, it is more than a common word for prayer, and is in itself rich with good thought and right feeling. We shall welcome future favors from the same source. ED.] PRAYER IS THE SOLACE OF AFFLICTION. "In the day of my trouble I will call upon thee." THERE is some relief even in tears. We have been told of the luxury of weeping. So long as the feelings of a sufferer are restrained and shut up within his own bosom, they prey upon his internal peace. While David kept silence, his bones waxed old; but when the feelings obtain a channel through which they find utterance and expansion, the heart is relieved, at least of part of its burden. It eases and soothes the aching heart to pour our grief into the ear of a friend who truly sympathizes with us, and who, rejoicing when we rejoice, will also weep when we weep. But O, to turn aside as Job did, and say, "Mine eye poureth out tears unto God!"-to tell Him all that distresses, and all that afflicts us, with a confidence in his compassion, and sympathy, and power, and wisdom, like the child which sobs itself to sleep in its mother's arms, and on its mother's bosom; here is an asylum from which no enemy can cut us off; here is a sanctuary where no evil can enter; here is a cabin in the midst of the wildest storms; here is a joy in the midst of the deepest tribulations. It is said that travelers in Alpine regions, as they ascend toward the summit of those lofty mountains, often enjoy a clear atmosphere and an unclouded sun, while the world below them is involved in mists and darkness, and the tempest is raging beneath their feet. Thus prayer elevates the Christian above the clouds and storms that darken and distract the world below. By communion with God he gains a region of peace and tranquility, where the sunshine of God's favor beams upon his soul, while he sees the thunder clouds of earthly care and sorrow rolling beneath his feet. By prayer the mind is brought into immediate contact with the Supreme will; the sovereignty of God is felt and acknowledged; the wisdom of his dispensations is recognized, and the faithfulness and love of God become objects of joyous contemplation and delightful hope. The believer feels that in God he has a friend-a friend who will never leave nor forsake him; hence his soul becomes resigned and thankful, and is placed in the best condition for procuring at once the mitigation of his sorrow, and of profiting by the affliction which has occasioned it. I do not wonder, therefore, that David should say, "It is good for me to draw nigh unto God." Nothing have we so much to dread as the relinquishment of prayer. To give up prayer is to give up all help, all hope;—it is to defeat the design of providential chastisement; for if men will not pray when affliction overwhelms them, what else can prove efficacious? for prayer is the medium of our relief in trouble. For this relief we are allowed to be concerned; but we must seek it from God. And in doing this we have not only his power to encourage us, but also his mercy and love. Yea more, we have his faithfulness and truth, that we shall not seek him in vain. He hath engaged to deliver us. He hath bound himself, and put the bond into our hand, and we can produce it, and plead it, and be surer of its fulfillment than we are of the continuance of heaven and earth, "for heaven and earth shall pass away, but His word shall not pass away." Here it is: "The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon him, to all that call upon him in truth."—" Call upon me in the day of trouble; I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me."-" The eyes of the Lord are upon the righteous, and his ears are open unto their prayers."-" Ask and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you."-" If ye, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father, who is in heaven, give good things to them that ask him!" And how abundantly has God verified his promises in the experience of his people in all ages! The sacred writings are full of examples of the efficacy of prayer, and especially of the certain relief it secures in the time of affliction. Jacob, when alarmed at the approach of his brother Esau, and expecting to be destroyed together with his family, prayed to God, and prevailed, and Esau became his friend. When Israel was oppressed with the Philistines, Samuel prayed, and the invaders were scattered and fled. When Hezekiah was nigh unto death, he prayed, and fifteen years were added to his life. Daniel and his companions, when threatened with destruction, because unable to tell the prophetic dream of Nebuchadnezzar, prayed, and the dream and the interpretation were made known to them. Jonah, amid the swellings of the deep, prayed, and obtained deliverance. Peter was thrown into prison by Herod ; the church of God prayed without ceasing for his deliverance, and their prayer was more powerful than chains, and bolts, and prison doors, and armed guards. Paul and Silas were imprisoned at Phillippi,-thrown into the inner dungeon: they prayed, and an earthquake shook the prison to its foundation, and all its doors were opened, and every one's bonds were loosed. Such are some of the memorable instances recorded in the sacred volume of the success of prayer in times of trouble. While viewing them, who may not see that "prayer moves the hand that moves the world." Whatever evil, therefore, it is that oppresses our souls, we can pour out our hearts into the ear of the "Father of mercies," the God of all comfort, and be sure it cannot be in vain. It can deliver from danger-procure blessings; it can obtain pardon for sin-furnish strength against temptation, mitigate the extremity of suffering, sustain our infirmities, remove dejection, increase our graces, abate our fears, sweeten the bitterness of affliction, and open the windows of heaven! Let us pray, therefore, and be happy. When we pray, either that some temporal calamity may be removed, or some temporal bles. sing be bestowed, we are always to keep a reserve upon our wishes, including submission to the will of God; for we are so ignorant of what is really good for us, that we may be more injured by the gratification of our desires than by the refusal of them. There can be no doubt that were every desire we express in prayer to meet with a direct and literal fulfillment, the efficacy of prayer, through our ignorance of what is really good for us, would become a sower of calamity rather than a comfort. "Who knoweth what is good for man in this life, all the days of his vain life which he spendeth as a shadow?" Why, God, and he only. If, however, God denies our request, because in ignorance we ask a stone in the place of bread, or a scorpion when we should ask for fish, He never fails to give us something in the place of what he denies, which is more than an equivalent. While God engages to answer prayer, he reserves to himself the right of answering it in his own way; but in doing so He is influenced not by caprice, but by a regard to our welfare. Thus the thrice-repeated request of his servant Paul, was granted. He asked for deliverance from the thorn in the flesh; but instead of removing it, God gave him grace to bear it patiently. If, therefore, the answers which God sends to our prayers do not always correspond with our requests, the change is always for our benefit. If, for instance, when we implore deliverance from trouble, he gives us patience under it, and enables us to derive advantage from it, our prayer is answered, and God's veracity is free from stain. If we solicit consolation, and he prepares us for it by increased humiliation, our request is granted, and granted in a way that is more conducive to our benefit, than if the blessing which we desired of Him had been immediately bestowed. Hence the prayer which Socrates taught his pupil is not unworthy to be used by a Christian: "That he should beseech the Supreme Being to give him what was good for him, though he should not ask it; and to withhold from him whatever was injurious, if by his folly he should be led to pray for it." A FORTUNATE KISS. S. W. E. THE following little story by Miss BREMER is furnished to Sartain's Magazine. For its truth and reality she says she will be responsible: "In the University of Upsala, in Sweden, lived a young student, a lonely youth, with a great love for studies, but without means for pursuing them. He was poor, and without connections. Still he studied, living in great poverty, but keeping a cheerful heart, and trying not to look at the future, which looked so grimly at him. His good humor and good qualities made him beloved by his young comrades. Once he was standing with some of them in the great square of Upsala, prating away an hour of leisure, when the attention of the young men became arrested by a very young and elegant lady, who, at the side of an elderly one, walked slowly over the place. It was the daughter of the Governor of Upland, living in the city, and the lady with her was her governess. She was generally known for her beauty and for her goodness and gentleness of character, and was looked upon with great admiration by the students. As the young men now stood silently gazing at her, as she passed on like a graceful vision, one of them exclaimed : 'Well, it would be worth something to have a kiss from such a mouth! The poor young student, the hero of our story, who was looking intently on that pure and an |