ones of ineffable sweetness,--

"Pray--pray for _him_ and thyself, and thou shalt find peace." The face
and the voice were those of her dead sister Charlotte, and a sudden joy
shot into her heart, and the vision faded away, and she awoke, and
behold it was a dream.

Sophy rose up, and sank down upon the ground, and buried her face in her
hands, and tried to pray, for the first time in her life, earnestly and
truthfully, in the firm belief that He to whom she addressed her
petition was able to help and save her, in her hour of need. Few and
imperfect were her words; but they flowed from the heart, and He who
looks upon the heart, gave an answer of peace.

Memory, ever faithful in the hour of grief, supplied her with a long
catalogue of the sins and follies of a misspent life. Deeply she
acknowledged the vanity and nothingness of those things in which she had
once felt such an eager, childish delight; and she asked forgiveness of
her Maker for a thousand faults that she had never acknowledged as
faults before.

The world to the prosperous has many attractions. It is their
paradise--they seek for no other; and to part with its enjoyments
comprises the bitterness of death. Even the poor work on, and hope for
better days. It is only the wounded in spirit, and sad of heart, that
reject its allurements, and turn with their whole soul to God. Out of
much tribulation they are new-born to life--that better life promised
to them by their Lord and Saviour.

Sophy was still upon her knees, when the grey light of a rainy October
morning gradually strengthened into day. Gloomy and louring, it seemed
to regard her with a cheerless scowl as, shivering with cold and
excitement, she unclosed the door, and stepped forth into the moist air.

"How like my earthly destiny!" she sighed. "But there is a sun behind
the dark clouds, and hope exists, even for a wretch like me."

The sound of horses' hoofs approaching rapidly struck upon her ear, and
the next moment she had caught hold of the bridle of the nearest rider.
They were the constables, who had conducted Noah to prison, returning to
the village.

"Tell me," she cried, in a voice which much weeping had rendered hoarse,
and almost inarticulate, "something about my poor husband--will he be
hung?"

"Nothing more certain," replied the person thus addressed. "Small chance
of escape for him. The foolish fellow has confessed all."

"Then he did really commit the murder?"

"Worse tha