findeth to do, do it with all thy might; to each a promise" Where I am, there shall also my servant be, for there remaineth a rest for the people of God." But though to every one of that family when thus called from darkness to light, was allotted a path of more or less difficulty and trial, to Emily, that sweet happy child, a passage through a dark and mournful valley was pointed out. She was chosen from among her brethren, beholding her as he did the young man who had great possessions, the Lord loved her, and with a greater love, he would not let her go away, he

Called for a cloud to darken all her years,

And said, 'Go, spend them in a vale of tears.'

Strange proof of love! would a worldling say? Yes, it was LOVE-Love, to celebrate which another harp was tuned in heaven.

The only faults, if they may be termed so, that I ever observed in Emily's disposition, were an excessive sensibility; this indeed was the prevailing trait of her character-a degree of volatility of spirits, and a tincture of vanity, the natural result of the praises of her childhood. To the two last a remedy was brought, in the course of earthly discipline by which she was trained for heaven. The first rendered her disposition in childhood rather difficult to manage; few persons understood it aright—perhaps only one did so perfectly, and to that one the sensibility which occasioned some trouble, afforded the strongest link of union, and was the ground-work of that idolatry of heart which was, perhaps still is, sinfully cherished. The idolatry of memory may be wrong. This keenness of feeling might be mistaken

for a defect of temper-a word lightly said was sometimes deeply heard; a look not meant to be unkind sunk into her heart; her joy was rapturous; her sorrow excessive. Her affection, therefore, may be imagined; there is one, at least, who knew, who feels what it was.

Emily's disposition required training more than correction; human means might be, and were made useful, in assisting to form a very lovely character for this life; but the Lord took her under his own hand, and formed her for heaven. Volatility and vanity were to be corrected, therefore the sunshine of her childhood set in a cloud, and the beauty of her childhood was blighted by disease. Then the Lord spoke to her with the still small voice of love; and the one anxious desire of the sweet child's heart became, as she often expressed it to me, to know that she was the child of God; not that she ever spoke much of religion or of sacred things: in the course of a union of heart and mind that subsisted from the cradle to the grave, without a misunderstanding, without a suspicion of unkindly feeling, I never heard from her lips one of those expressions so com-monly met in the records of pious children and very young persons. Religion seemed in her a quiet concern between God and her own soul; it was seen and felt, more than heard of.

How often when I sit alone in the gloom of the evening, at that peculiar season of the year when the twilight comes on at the very hour at which we feel disposed to make its shadows an excuse for indulging in repose, either of mind or body, do I fancy I see her fragile figure stealing in at my study door; the timid, affectionate blue eye that always

seemed to swim with feelings that were seldom expressed, sending forward its inquiring glance to see if I was engaged, and then sinking under its deep lid and long, long lash, as she dropped quietly on a seat, where she would sit silently, even when sitting upright on a chair was wearisome to her, from weakness, until my occupations, if I was occupied, being ended, I was ready to devote that quiet hour to her and to holy things.

The practice of devoting this hour to mutual prayer arose from the following occurrence. One night after I had retired to my room, a message was brought to me, saying Emily was very ill. I hastily went to her, and found she had been startled from sleep by a noise, which brought on a severe pain of the head, to which she had been for some time subject; she was weeping and tossing her painful head on the pillow. I spent the night with her; next morning as I was leaving the room, she said her nose was bleeding: I gave her what I thought necessary, and went away, not thinking any thing of it; but when I returned to her after breakfast, I found it still continuing: and it continued, and increased, and for six hours I held the dear drooping girl in my arms, while medical aid failed, and in every breast but mine, hope was almost extinguished, and the trembling eye-lids, after each effort to lift a glance to the agonized countenance that hung over her, closed heavily down and seemed incapable of rising. Then it was that I first felt that I might be compelled to yield up Emily, and then I felt something of the anguish it would cost to do so: then I prayed and prayed unconditionally, for life; just one prayer rose incessantly from my heart. 'Spare

it a little longer :-spare it this year also: and and as hope grew less and less, Spare it this day, this hour.' The prayer was heard; when every remedy which the best medical skill could offer had failed, my own hand administered a simple application, and Emily was given back to us again. The next day she was free from all uneasiness, but surprisingly altered in appearance; as I sat gazing on her changed face: Oh! Emily,' I exclaimed, "how happy it must be to have done for ever with these poor troublesome bodies."

She burst into tears; I hastily explained that I did not for a moment contemplate her removal in speaking this; no, I had never brought myself to do that.

'Oh! it is not that,' Emily replied, but I do not feel so fit to die as I once did.'

'Dearest, what do you mean by fitness? would you depend on anything in yourself or from yourself?'

'No, no, no—but I do not feel sure that I belong to Christ.' Another burst of tears followed the words. I found Emily was a stranger to the joy and peace of believing; she had let go her hope, she had not faith to rest in the simple belief that Jesus died for her, and that therefore all things were her's, both for life and death, in that she was Christ's and Christ was God's.

This was the cause of our evening, and when circumstances admitted it, of our morning meetings, of these hallowed hours, which are the sweetest memory recalls; we joined like the disciples in praying: "Lord, increase our faith;" ah! if one of us had prayed for faith to resign our heart's treasure

to Him, who had a right to do what He would with His own, some anguish might have been escaped.

After the rather singular and alarming occurrence I have mentioned, Emily never recovered her looks or strength; she had long been a great sufferer, and a source of ceaseless anxiety; but on the approach of winter, after this attack, she became a tender hot-house plant, which incessant care was required to guard. A fearful cough, and all the melancholy attendants on extreme irritability of lungs, appeared: for two months we occupied the same apartment; for two months I never breathed other air in that apartment we read together, prayed together, lived together, night or day never saw us separated our hearts and souls were united by ties the power of death could not burst.

At the end of two months Emily was better; the warm spring revived her, but my health failed; business, too, called me to London, and I left Ireland and her. Had I foreseen the circumstances with which my return would be attended, with what feelings should I have gazed on its receding shores.

At length I revisited those beautiful shores, and early on a bright summer's morning reached Emily's dwelling. Early as it was, the first object which the open door presented to me was the dear girl standing, as I think now, as I often do think, I see her, on the stairs at the end of the hall; her face slightly coloured by exertion and joy, her sweet eyes beaming forth their eager glance of welcome, and one weak arm extended, while the other rested for support on the hand-rail. How foolish is it, that still when I meet others where I met them, I still, still look round to meet those dear eyes; still,