tions,--that although they seemed grievous
and inscrutable to them, he saw the end from the beginning, and
chastized whom he loved.

THE MOTHERLESS CHILD.

BY MRS. M.H. ADAMS.

To become a childless mother is indeed one of the most severe
afflictions which woman can be called to endure; yet it may be, it is
often met with noble, Christian fortitude, with Christian humility and
resignation, that soothe the acute pains of the mother's heart, and
carry her thoughts away from earth and above its sorrows; so that we
feel that she can and has found a balm, and has still left her
consolation and happiness. But when we see a little child, whose mother
God has taken, as fully realizing its bereavement, its loneliness, its
absolute misfortune, as a child can do, we feel that to be a motherless
child in this unchristian world, is indeed an affliction for which there
seldom appears a balm; though we doubt not our Father hath the balm for
this as for every other wound.

A young man sat by the corpse of his faithful wife, the mother of all
his little babes. One child was gazing silently and inquiringly at her
father, as he held his head weeping and groaning in anguish of spirit.
A tender infant of a few weeks lay asleep in the cradle at his side. The
young man's mother entered the room, and with tenderness of tone and
manner, endeavored to calm his grief; with words of gospel love and
faith to comfort him.

"Abby has been to you a kind, faithful and devoted wife, David; an
agreeable companion and constant friend. Before God she was a humble
child, and before the world a worthy disciple of Christ. You doubtless
feel all this, and more. Few can speak evil of her, and very many will
sincerely mourn her early death, and sympathize with you in this
dreadful hour. But remember, David, you have, before this, professed
trust and belief in the promises and love of God. Now is the time to
make manifest your Christian faith, your hope in God, your belief in the
gospel. Try not to be utterly disconsolate in your loneliness. God is
very near to us, although this heavy cloud of sorrow lies between him
and us."

They were interrupted by the entrance of the oldest child of the
departed one, a sensitive, intelligent boy of six or seven years. Tears
were in his eyes as he opened the door, and fell fast into the lap of
his father as he tried to speak to him.

"Father," said he, "I have been down in the sitting-room, trying to read
my