of good works, the most diligent in business, and the most eager in following after perfectness.

It has struck me as remarkable, that, from the time of dear Marie rearing a Lemon-plant for me, I have never been without one, until within the last year. That which I had long nursed, died; and I kept the dry unsightly stalks among my flourishing plants, more than half a year, in the vague hope that it might sprout again; or under a fond feeling of reluctance quite to lose the memento. I plucked it up only a few days before I learnt the fact of Marie's departure to a better place; and now the sweet shrub must resume its station, a cherished memento of what I can no more see on earth. The peculiarly healthful fragrance of those slender leaves, their rapid growth, and the delicacy of their pale verdure, all are in keeping, with the traits of Marie's character, most vividly impressed on my mind-traits that led me, from the commencement of our intercourse, to place her first and highest on my list of female acquaintance, nor do I expect to meet with her equal among women. Yet what was, what is she? A wretched, guilty sinner; saved, washed, justified, and sanctified, in the name of the Lord Jesus, and by the Spirit of our God. Those accomplishments, to the attainment of which so many valuable hours were sacrificed, what were they, to an immortal being, sent into this world to fight her way through hosts of infernal foes, encompassing and inhabiting a body of sin and death? Nothing, less than nothing and vanity!

The details connected with my beloved Marie's history, would far surpass, in touching and heartthrilling interest, those of any individual to whom I

have yet alluded; but her character needed not the aid of such contingent circumstances to render it engaging in the eyes of those who knew her; nor does it require that aid to make it attractive to those who love to see a co-temporary, adorned in like manner, as the holy women of old adorned themselves. I could have made my readers weep with me; but I would rather lead them to reflect and to pray, encouraged by the exhibition of what God wrought in my Marie, and what he is equally able, equally willing to work in them also.

C. E.

WALKS.

WALK THE ELEVENTH.-THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

"HE has withdrawn himself and is gone. I sought him but I could not find him. I called him but he gave no answer," (Cant. v. 6.) O! tell me where is my beloved, where is my friend?

And now Capernaum! I cannot linger within thy walls he is gone who drew me hither, and I will pursue the southward road to join him who lately passed out of thy gates. This absence of my light, my life, my all, has left me sorrowful, nor do I expect comfort, till I am once more in his presence.

Having reached the great plain of Esdraelon, we approach a mountain with steep and rugged sides, yet in many parts richly clothed with cedar, birch, and box trees. Oft have we rested, O Tabor! on thy flattened summit, pleased with the fair and expansive prospect of the fertile Esdraelon; and stretching our view over Canaan, the land of promise, our pleasure has been enlarged while we, like Abraham, have looked for the city of habitations.

We have journeyed many miles through the plain, and now, as we round a projecting rock, the city of Nain stands before us, resting under the shelter of the lofty Hermon.

We are nigh to the gate of Nain, and as we approach, we hear the voice of the mourners, and perceive the head of a funeral procession about to

leave the city. The angel of death has visited the house of a widow, and her only son has been called to judgment.

At first, amazement possessed the mother's soul, when she discovered that she was childless, the violence of the blow was stunning, and the fountain of her tears was dried up; in her grief there was nothing of its natural expression—no sobbing nor wailing; her countenance was waxy pale, her eyes fixed, and her gait measured.

It seemed as if she had never expected the stroke, which had left her desolate; although her affections were deeply wounded, she was incapable of realizing the doleful event which had taken place. When his spirit left him, she closed his eyes, tenderly purified his body, and wrapped him up with aromatic gums and fragrant spices: and with odorous flowers, she strewed his bed, which she never left; still, when a step was heard, or a distant voice, or when the door of the chamber was opened, she would suddenly look round, as if she expected to see him enter.

When at last she perceived that they were preparing to carry him out to the grave, she began to understand and feel the nature and extent of her misery : a sentiment more definite, perhaps more selfish, occupied the place of sorrow, that his happiness should have ended in the very spring and opening of life. She began to ask herself, How shall I bear the benumbing loneliness which must ever remind me of him who had let in a ray of bright sun-shine into my gloomy abode? How can I part with him, who, when every sympathy was destroyed, when the world had become a wilderness to me, and its appointed duties a cold routine, once more con

nected me with life and hope, and gave to my existence the only pleasure it was capable of in the exercise of affection for one in every way worthy, who lived but for me? And now her tears began to flow, and they were gushing from her eyes, as she was met by the compassionate Emmanuel.

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Weep not," said he, addressing her with solemn tenderness. A sad picture had at this moment been created by her busy imagination. She fancied herself at the door of her house on her return, 'How shall I be able,' she was thinking, to enter, when he, who never failed to welcome my approach, is lying in the tomb.' When she heard our Lord's words, she looked at the bier, and then, as if she would gain their full meaning, she looked inquiringly at her friends. After murmurs of doubt, and expressions of distinct recognition, she is told that he who said to her, "Weep not," is the great Prophet from Capernaum, who heals the sick, and whom even the winds and waves obey. Awe now possessed even the mourning widow, at the approach of the mysterious Nazarene: but with awe there must have been mingled a fond wish that he had visited Nain during the sickness of her son,-for then he had not died.

But the bitterness of her grief is past: her tears are now the tears of thankfulness and joy, and her house is once more to be the seat of maternal affection and filial gratitude, in due subordination to the love of God; for "the Lord came and touched the bier, and they that bore it stood still, and he said, Young man, I say unto thee, arise! and he that was dead sat up and began to speak; and he delivered him to his mother." Thus in the most public part of