"And my brave and steady Willy, Like his father, slow of tongue, Says a word and keeps it, Neddy, A good sailor though so young. 'Don't you fret for Jack, dear mother,' Said he when he saw me cry; 'Rather than harm touch my brother, Mother, I would sooner die.' "It has been a weary waiting, This six weeks has seemed a year; Every night I dreamed of drowning, And waked up to shake with fear, And I seemed to have forgotten Him who walked upon the wave, And who hears His children praying, Ever near, and strong to save. "For the sea is His, He made it, With full hearts we all shall thank Him, Even little Ned can whisper, 'I thank God my father's come!'" Nearer came the white sails, nearer, Kissed their little ones once more. As a dark cloud o'er the water, As the tiny craft drew near. Till the weather-beaten sailor "Will has kept his promise, Mary, A brave boy God gave us, mother, Ah! God loved him well, my Mary, "Now the long slow waves are washing "Oh, my darling," moaned the mother, "If I had but loved you more! Shall I never see you, Willy, Never watch you come on shore? "If He loves us and can help us, Would have brought my son again." Then the husband, drawing nearer, "Listen now, dear wife, and heed me, He has come to me at sea, "Life we asked for our darling, Now he knows long life in heaven, "We shall cry for Willy, mother, "Yet, though we are tried and troubled, A Word in Season. IT was a very simple incident which resulted in the conversion of Madame Beauvais from being a rigid Roman Catholic into an earnest Protestant. In the French city in which she resided, there was not a lady of greater beauty or more accomplished manners. Her position gave her the right to enter the best society; but it was a privilege she seldom claimed. It was the joy of her life to attend to the duties of her church; and there were many times when she would gladly have renounced what she called the world, for the quiet of the convent. As this was impossible, however, she devoted herself earnestly to the duties imposed upon her by the priests from morning to night. Wet or dry, she was the first in the chapel and the last to leave. On every festival she attended with reverence and delight; and the tourist might often have seen her kneeling in profound devotion by the stone crosses which dotted the roadside. It was Corpus Christi day in her city when an English tourist first saw her. The Roman Catholics on that day were keeping the anniversary of the institution of the Holy Eucharist. There was great display on the occasion. The city was handsomely decorated, and its inhabitants were in holiday attire. No civic procession with which the English reader may be acquainted attracted a larger throng or excited a keener interest. Windows and balconies were filled with gaily-dressed persons; while flags, banners, and transparencies added brightness to the scene. Thousands were waiting for the moment when the car would pass by which concealed the consecrated wafer which, in their superstition, they believed to be God himself. Presently it came in much pomp and state, attended by priests in gorgeous vestments. It was no sooner in sight than the thousands who were awaiting its arrival dropped upon their knees, and a profound silence reigned as it passed by. Madame Beauvais had been kneeling in the street long before the procession was in sight. She might have been in one of the brightest of the balconies, but she preferred being as near as possible to the car which, in her estimation, contained so holy a mystery. She was thus kneeling when the English tourist strolled up to see what was going on. Hundreds were kneeling; hundreds had their hats off; but he, without the slightest feeling of disrespect, remained erect and kept his hat on. Turning her eyes for a moment in his direction, Madame Beauvais saw him, and immediately became disturbed and irritated. "You are irreverent, sir," she said, in good English. 'How, madame! I do not understand you." "Take off your hat, sir." There was no time for further conversation, for the procession was in sight, and madame prostrated herself as it passed, and continued kneeling until it was far on its way. The Englishman was hurt that he should have wounded the lady's religious feelings, and he lingered to express his regret if he had unconsciously done so. When she rose from her knees, he said, lifting his hat, "I am sorry, madame-" "You should have lifted your hat to God, sir," she interrupted, in a sorrowful tone. 66 Pardon me, madame: I am quite a stranger here. I hope I have lifted my heart to God this morning; but I did not see anything in that curious procession that called for my taking off my hat." She looked at him for a moment, and then thought, with the enthusiasm which was natural to her, that she saw her way to make a proselyte. "Do you not know, then, who passed by just now?” "I saw, madame, a number of priests, a handsome car with images; and, taking it altogether, a pretty show." "A pretty show!" she retorted, indignantly; "the priests were attending God, sir! He was being carried past us." "Will you tell me how ?" asked the Englishman, who also wished to shed a ray of gospel light into this lady's mind. |