still even in the gladness of meeting, I feel a pang, a void within my heart when I miss them.

This was a meeting so full of joy, so very full of joy, that I did not notice any cause for grief; I did not observe, what was visible to every one else, that Emily was upheld by the excitement of my return, was exerting a degree of strength that was entirely fictitious, and acting under an influence that must soon fail. The very next evening she fainted in my arms that night I carried her to her bed: I had often done so before, and now she was not a greater burthen than in the days of her rosy childhood. I then first discovered that scarcely the semblance of our Emily remained; and as I gazed, with feelings not now to be dwelt on, at her faded, languid form, as she lay to regain a little strength, I involuntarily exclaimed, 'Oh! it is mere selfishness to wish to keep her here!'

She unclosed her eyes, and with a look that entered my very heart and still dwells there, and a faint smile, as if pleased that I should approach this subject, she replied, ' And I fear it is wrong to wish so much to go.-Oh! it is too great a wish!' It was a great wish, but it was one my sinful, earthly heart could not join in.

1

The next day Emily begged me to take her into my room, saying, You know we used always to be together; my greatest desire was to have you with me again; now you are come let us not be separated any more.'

Once again I carried that light and precious burden to the bed that was prepared for her in my apartment; as she entered the room, Emily seemed to make an effort to cast her eyes about it; and

looked languidly but earnestly at everything, and ended the survey by fixing them on my face. There was something peculiar, something which I could not understand, but which made me feel very uneasy, in her whole appearance and manner; and after a long pause I abruptly said, 'Emily, what do you think of yourself?'

She understood me; she was evidently glad to hear me ask the question. Promptly, but gently, in a calm collected voice, far different from my hurried, choaking tone, she answered it.

Oh! I do not think it will be very soon-but I shall never leave this room again.'

Ah! how few are the words that take up their dwelling-place in the heart, and abide there in every future scene of joy and sorrow. So did these enter mine. Their effect at the time I know not. I afterwards remembered that it was evening when Emily used them, and the shades of night had spread through the room when her voice again recalled me to myself. It was then that she became aware of the effect her words had produced: the hectic on her cheek grew pale, she closed her eyes as she always did when she felt much, and the trembling of the lids, and the quivering of her lips, showed that she mourned with those that mourned, though for herself she had a desire to depart and be with Jesus.

This is very wrong,' she said at length in a faint voice, this is all that ever grieved me to think that you would grieve-but oh! if you knew how happy I am, you would think it sinful to shed one tear. We shall not be separated for ever; it may be a long time perhaps, but it will not be for ever.' No, it will not be for ever. It is this I often say

to myself, when I miss the sympathy I once possessed, when I think of the love I once enjoyed—it will not be for ever. The object of my care, of my earliest solicitude, the subject of my poor prayers, -is gone before me. At eight years of age I became, by what might be called an accident, her godmother: for fourteen years I watched, and tended, and lived for her.

Emily spoke truly; she never left that room again : was I guided back to her for this? Till that day she had always mixed with the family. In judgment the Lord remembereth mercy. I was brought back to dear Ireland to take my post beside the dying bed of her whose cradle my childhood had watched. I would not believe it was to be such; for three weeks I sat or knelt night and day beside it; and oh! it strengthens faith and hope to think of the words I then heard, and the countenance I then looked on. The hope of her childhood was bright, but the hope of her death was brighter: the one might have foretold a welcome entrance on a vain delusive world, the other was breathed in her last words, I could almost think, I saw my Saviour standing to receive me.'-To receive her to joys which eye hath not seen, nor ear heard of-to receive her to Himself to receive her out of a world the fashion of which, at the best, passeth away, to an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled. Here then is the contrast of which I spoke of these two sweet children, one was led through a vale of tears into that narrow road which leadeth unto life, and which conducted her, painfully, but quickly to the realms of glory: the other was left to wander at ease through the flowery paths of a deceitful world. Of those

two lovely forms the one has now for some brief space slumbered in a quiet tomb; the other is redolent with youth, and health, and joyousness: the spirit of the one is now among the spirits of the "just made perfect;" the heart of the other has taken up its portion amid the things that are seen and are temporal.

In the hours of loneliness or sorrow, when I feel a want of sympathy or require support, I often think the spirit of my beloved Emily is around me; in the night especially I love to think so. I love to think that the eye that never looked on me but with interest, with affectionate sympathy and love, still beams upon me, though now we are separated. But would I, if I could, reverse the present state of those whose brief histories I have contrasted? Oh no, my Emily, let me be content to be separated from you a little longer, bearing in mind your own sweet words, It will not be for ever.'

S. B.

MADAM,

ON INCONSISTENCY.

Seeing in your “Christian Lady's Magazine," a chapter on Inconsistency, together with some remarks of your own, treating on the impropriety of Christians joining in dancing and playing at chess, for the which my gratitude is due; I, in common with some friends have been very desirous of knowing your opinion on music also,-whether or not, it be consistent with the religion of Jesus, for his followers to sing and play any thing not strictly sacred?

It has been for a long time a matter of discussion, in the circle in which I move; but as a young Christian, I would not draw the cord too tightly. And on the other hand, I desire to act up to principle and duty;-the Bible expressly says "Be not conformed to this world, but be ye transformed by the renewingof your mind-that ye may know what is that good and acceptable, and perfect will of God." And again: "Abstain from all appearance of evil.” Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your hearts to the Lord."

66

And if we love that high and holy Name by which we are called, we ought to shew it forth by a life and conversation becoming his gospel: then indeed shall we be always in a readiness to depart from earth, to be with him in the realms of everlasting purity and