sity of her feelings lest she should be giving pain, said, Mother, do not let your heart be grieved at what I am about to tell you, it is no use hiding it from you, for you. must know it soon. I am going to leave you, dear mother, GOD is calling me home; soon,-perhaps in a few days, I shall have bid farewell to earth. Do not try to deceive yourself or me with the hope of recovery. I know it is useless, I feel the warning too well here," and she placed her hand upon her heart, but seeing the distress of her mother and sisters who were weeping bitterly at her words, she added, "why do you weep so, believe me, I would not stay if I could, for I know that with me, to die is gain.' "But can you really leave us without regret ?" asked one of the sisters, when she could venture to speak, "can you leave us all who love you so well? can you be content never to walk in your favourite paths again, or tend your favourite flowers ?" "Yes," she replied, "I am content, nay more, I rejoice to go; once I wept to leave the things you speak of, I wept to think I should look on the faces I love, no more, but now all things are changed, old things have become new, I go without a pang." "And what makes you so glad to leave us ?" asked her mother, are you so very certain of Heaven? have you no fear of acceptance with Him, that you can unfalteringly appear before the Judgment seat of your Maker ?" 66 I have no fear, dear mother, for though a weak and miserably sinful creature, I am covered with a robe that hides all my defects-the Righteousness of CHRIST. I am washed in the fountain of His Blood, and He says Himself that His strength is made perfect through weakness." Then the angel bade me look closer; I did so, and saw that the same White-Robed Spirit sat by the pillow of Aimée that had stood beside the lonely woman we had left. I saw too that she was pointing upwards, as if showing her some of the glories above, upon which I asked the angel what the Spirit was doing, and he answered me, that she was showing her some glimpses of the Eternal City, and strengthening her with a distant view of the "just made perfect." Also I saw that she pointed to the Cross and bade her look upon it, assuring her as long as she fixed her gaze on that she would never faint nor be weary. "That Spirit," said the angel to me, "is the only one of the messengers from Heaven, who has the power given her to show these visions of Immortality to mortals, and then only to those who truly believe in her teachings. For some days Aimée lingered on, and Hope, "That boon to mortals given," began to dawn in the hearts of those who so fondly loved her; but it was not to be. More than a week had passed when one evening the countenance of the dying girl told too plainly that all earthly things were passing away from her, that a voice had gone forth from the Throne, “Come, ye blessed of My FATHER, enter the Kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world." Hastily were all the members of the family summoned, and silently they gathered round her bed. Oh! what hearts full of anguish were there in that group, for she who had been the light of their eyes, who had been as a sunbeam among them, was that night to take her departure into a far distant Country, from whence she could never return. For some time not a sound broke the stillness of the apartment, excepting the half-suppressed sob that occasionally burst from a heart too full of bitterness to contain it, until Aimée, turning her head slightly towards the side of the bed where her mother stood, said in a low voice, every word of which was breathlessly listened to, "Do not weep for me, do not weep, I entreat you, hear what has been my comfort and support, and let it comfort you: "Fear not, for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine. "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee, and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire thou shalt not be burned, neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.' Can I want more, dear mother, can there be a more precious promise than that? it has been with me always, and will it fail me now ?" Then, as if speaking to herself, she murmured, "When I pass through the Valley of the Shadow of Death Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me." Oh! my child, my Aimée," sobbed the wretched mother, "how shall I part with you? this trouble is more than I can endure." 66 But you must endure it, dear mother, it is God's will; I know you find it hard to part with me, but believe me, it is for the best, you know all things work together for good to them that love GOD, and it may be I am going that you may follow quicker after me. Oh! do not give way to sorrow, but turn to Him Who is the Comforter of all who mourn." Here Aimée's voice failed her, and she lay as if exhausted; after a few minutes she motioned to her mother to come nearer to her, when she whispered in her ear, "Lay my head on your shoulder, mother, let me die there." Her wish was instantly complied with and her head was gently lifted on to her mother's shoulders: there she rested, as quietly and tranquilly as a child wearied with its play, when suddenly looking upwards as if she heard something, exclaimed in a voice of rapture, "There, the trumpet sounds for me, I hear the rustling of the angels' wings, they come for me! they come! Farewell." She half sprung forward in an ecstacy, and then sunk back upon the pillow. The Spirit had fled, the mortal had put on immortality, the Shepherd had taken the lamb into His bosom. Then I looked and saw the White-Robed Spirit, attended by an innumerable company of angels, take the spirit as soon as it left the body, and carry it up with the sounding of trumpets to the Heavenly Jerusalem, the City of the Great King, and as soon as they entered, the gates were closed, and I saw them no more. 1 Then the angel turned and asked me if I knew now, what it was that comforted the hearts of the mourners, and made "the desert to blossom as the rose." I said I knew it was the White-Robed Spirit, but the eyes of my understanding were darkened, so that I knew not clearly who she was. So the angel explained it to me. "That White-Robed Spirit," said he, "is FAITH, she is the purest and brightest of GOD's Messengers, for 'by Faith ye are saved;' it is she who ever reigns in the hearts of all those who truly love the LORD JESUS; it is she who has enabled the martyrs, and all those of whom the world was not worthy,' to suffer torments and death, for the Name of Him, Who bare our sins upon the Cross, and hath promised that 'whosoever believeth on Him, should not perish, but have everlasting life."" THE BEACON LIGHT; OR, A SISTER'S LOVE. Ir was a stormy night near the close of the year, with which the events of the following little tale open. The wind blew along the rocky coast of in tempestuous gusts, the sea roared loudly as it rolled in upon the sandy beach, and dashed up the high cliff, and thundered in the deep caverns below. Midway up the cliff hanging over the roaring ocean, stood a little house; a feeble light flickered through the window: let us look in and see what heart-rending scenes are passing within. The room is small; one corner is occupied by a bed, on which lies an aged widow in the last agonies of death: a beautiful girl is kneeling by her side, who with uplifted hands, now raises her eyes to Heaven in fervent prayer, and now rests them on that dying countenance before her. At the foot of the bed stands a youth of about twenty, his head is buried in his hands, and he leans for support against the bed-post. On the table is the candle flickering in its socket. Hark! how the thunder peals, -what an awful moment,- -a flash of lightning,—another peal, the house shakes! listen!. again another! that flash lightens the whole room, and seems to bring the dying woman back to life, for she faintly opens her eyes, and motions the youth to her bedside, then laying his hand on that of the pale one resting on the bed, she vainly attempts to utter some last requests: when there came another flash, brighter than the last, followed by a rolling peal of thunder-when it had passed away, one glance told Mary her mother's spirit had winged its upward flight. She remained kneeling for some minutes longer, and drawing her brother to her, made him follow her example. She then rose from her knees, herself performed all the last duties to the corpse before her, for she could not leave the house on such a night to seek the help of friends, and neighbours she had none. At last the little clock struck six, and as it told the hour, brother and sister looked long and sorrowfully at each other, for their hour of separation was come. William had got leave to come ashore, to see his dying mother, but his order was to be on board again by a given hour in the morning, and go he must. What a separation it was! His ship was, alas! bound to the Indies for an uncertain period; he must sail that very day in spite of wind and waves, and leave behind him a much loved sister, alone in the world; father and mother both dead. Oh! that leave-taking was heartrending. Mary clung to him, but never uttered a murmur. At last she gave him one fervent embrace, and with a prayer to GOD to protect him and restore him to her, she loosed herself from him. "One thing, dearest Mary, before I go," he said; "trust in me, I will come back to you, GOD willing; but promise me to burn a light in this window every night till I come." She promised, he pressed her once more to his heart, and rushed away. Poor Mary! she thought her heart would break; how could she live alone in the world, the only one now left to her, far, far away at sea. But words of comfort sounded in her ear, and a voice said, "they may forget, yet will I not forget thee." "We may look home, and seek in vain A fond fraternal heart; But CHRIST hath given His promise plain, |