received into the bosom of his flock the tender, consecrated lamb.

A silent tear stole from the eye of the mother down upon the ruby cheek of the sweet innocent a fit mirror to reflect the pure thought that trembled in her heart, as she gazed upon the fair jewel heaven had entrusted to her care, and which she was just consecrating back again to God.

The cooling drops from the fount sparkled in the smile of the infant's happy countenance. The hand of God's servant pressed lightly upon its lovely brow hushed stillness of the church the offering was ended

a soft, low prayer rose above the the deep, heartfelt response, and the child was Heaven's!

A few years had passed since the scene mentioned above, and we find its principal actors upon the bosom of the ocean. That mother in the depth of her love for her Maker's worship, had torn herself from home and its ten thousand ties, to carry the "balm of Gilead" to the wounded bosoms of the lonely heathen. The fresh breeze that was now breathing its cooling fragrance upon her burning forehead, and drying up the channels of tears through which oppressed nature sought a sweet relief, was separating her farther and still farther from those who were dearest in her earthly hopes the scenes of her youth, and home of her love. And now the long indistinct outline upon which her eye had lingered, eager to catch the last glimpse, had faded, and she gazed upon nought save the ocean's wave. One tear, sacred to memory, and she turned to her child, who in the loneliness of her heart seemed indescribably more dear to her; and she sought in its innocent prattle to tear herself from sadder thoughts. Carefully she had watched the opening bud of intellect her heart filling with fondest anticipations that it would increase and bloom in brightness, while its fragrance might cheer many a lonely hour of life. Anxiously then she strove that each shade should be tinged by the hand of purity, and that the sunbeams which played upon its beauties, should be the reflectings of heaven. They were now almost friendless upon the wide waters, when a sad painful blight was permitted to enter the sacred enclosure of the heart. The raven wing of sickness passed over the child of prayers and hopes, and it withered before the parent's eyes. She had given it to God - but a mother's heart beat in her bosom. The struggle between duty and affection was severe, for the heart clung fondly to its idol, while memory carried her back to the hour of its con

secration, and she shuddered at the thought of demanding back again the pledged offering. In the depth of her grief she thought of the green hills of her native land, and she sighed that she was denied even the small boon of placing its body by the side of her father's, and tracing its name upon the humble marble. From the fulness of her heart, she prayed for the dying child, and sought with all the ardor of a wounded spirit from the unfailing fountains of hope and faith, consolations for her grief.

Again it was a Sabbath day, as pure and calm as the day of baptismal; for the winds, as if conscious of the spell of gloom thrown around the ship, breathed slightly-the ocean hushed the sound of its rolling surges, for the spirit of the Almighty had breathed o'er its waters the deep command, "be still," and it spread out in the clear sunlight its calm, unruffled bosom.

And now the harsh sound of the tolling bell breaks in upon the general stillness, its gloomy peals echoing long and sadly upon the ear, as they melted away in the distance. The hardy sailors brush away the falling tears, as they prepare the last sad offices of nature. A form of grief stood with them; but conquered feeling had tinged every tear with a smile of holy resignation- the angel of the covenant had applied the charm of heaven to the wounded spirit! A little box of rough boards rests upon the taffrail — from the deck arises a song, heartfelt and solemn the prayer to God, fervent and submissive-the half suppressed groan—and all was finished. The wave opens the little box glides into its bosom the ripples close together-and all is calm again!—the sunbeams glancing down upon the wave as brightly as if it was not the shroud of death. The mother casts one look, long and tearful, upon the sea, then heavenward, breathing forth, "I have a cherub there."

Then indeed was the consecration ended, the borrowed jewel returned to its heavenly casket, and the lamb, the fairest of the flock, folded from the storms of earth, in the kind Shepherd's bosom. And now, rest calmly, little stranger, beneath thy deep blue mantle! Though no bending willows shed the pearly dews upon thy grave, nor marble slab marks thy lonely couch, yet the branches of the shadowy coral shall encircle thee, and the bright emeralds form thy silent headstone. Sleep then sweetly, till the voice of the angel shall wake thee to glory.

Boston.

B. K. P.