were as a lamp, guiding his feet and lighting his way through the dark valley of the shadow of death.

Need we say more to explain the scene with which we opened this sorrowful tale? The whole family had been by turns sitting up through a fortnight of anxious nights, and at last worn out in body and in mind, all are asleep, save John, who is also unable to keep entirely awake. Hugh, who had not vomited blood for some days, was fondly supposed by his dear relatives to be a little better; but, alas! these wishful hopes proved fallacious. Hugh, we have said, had fallen into an uneasy slumber. After an hour of restless sleep he awoke, and calling John, said, “I have a sore pain at my heart, I think I am dying. You had better awake my father and the rest." This John instantly did, and on his return found the vomiting renewed. The poor sufferer then sank back and fainted, and on his recovering a few minutes after, the family were all surrounding his death-bed. His father said to him, on observing the striking change on his features which the approach of death produces, “Are you afraid to die, Hugh?" O! that all my readers may, in this last and solemn scene, be able to give the same answer as Hugh was enabled to give. He said, "No! Christ hath for me unstinged death. O death! where is thy sting? O grave! where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; but thanks be to God, who hath given me the victory through Christ Jesus my Lord." Soon after saying this, he expired.

The affecting incident which we have so imperfectly related, was but the beginning of many sorrows to this humble family. After Hugh's death, John, feeling acutely the loss of his companion, thought of going to sea, to which his father had great reluctance; but, at length overcome by his son's importunities, he consented. In coming home on his second voyage, while performing a perilous duty aloft, the young sailor fell overboard, and the sea was running so high at the time that the captain, though a humane man, was constrained to turn a deaf ear to the piercing cries of "help," which came borne on the gale. Thus the twin brothers, so alike in life, in the manner of their death were not divided.

The intelligence of his son John's death, superadded to that of Hugh's, broke the heart of the old fisherman; and he

soon sunk under this load of affliction, though, in meek submission, he was enabled to kiss the rod which smote him.— Mary, a meek, gentle creature, formed for the sunshine of heaven, and not for the clouded darkness of this sinful valley of tears, soon followed her father to the grave. None are now left of that happy family but the youngest, who, tenderly taken care of by Elspith, yet struggles on through this weary world; and feeling that he only is wanted to complete a happy re-union in heaven, seeks to look forward to that as his home; and who, in order to impress others with the shortness and uncertainty of this life, and to inspire them with a longing after a better country, has penned this short, but he hopes instructive chapter from real life.

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

IT was thirteen years since my mother's death, when, after a long absence from my native village, I stood beside the sacred mound, beneath which I had seen her buried. Since that mournful period great changes had come over me. My childish years had passed away, and with them all my youthful character. The world had altered too; and, as I stood at my mother's grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same thoughtless, happy creature, whose cheek she had so often kissed in her excess of tenderness. But, the varied events of thirteen years had not effaced the remembrance of that mother's smile. It seemed as if I had seen her yesterday; as if the blessed sound of her voice was then in my ear. The gay dreams of my infancy and childhood were brought back so distinctly to my mind, that, had it not been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed would have been gentle and refreshing. The circumstance may seem a trifling one; but the thought of it even now, agonizes my heart and I relate it that those children who have parents to love them, may learn to value them as they ought.

My mother had been ill a long time, and I had become so much accustomed to her pale face and weak voice that I was not frightened at them as children usually are. At

first, it is true, I had sobbed violently-for they told me she would die; but when, day after day, I returned from school, and found her the same, I began to believe she would always be spared to me.

One day when I had lost my place in the class, and done my work wrong side outward, I came home discouraged and fretful. I went into my mother's chamber. She was paler than usual, but she met me with the same affectionate smile that always welcomed my return. Alas! when I look back through the lapse of thirteen years, I think my heart must have been stone, not to have been melted by it. She requested me to go down stairs and bring her a glass of water; I pettishly asked, why she did not call a domestic to do it. With a look of mild reproach, which I shall never forget if I live to be a hundred years old, she said, “And will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor, sick mother?"

I went and brought her the water, but I did not do it kindly. Instead of smiling and kissing her as I was wont to do, I sat the glass down very quick and left the room. After playing a short time I went to bed without bidding my mother "good night;" but, when alone in my room in darkness and silence, I remembered how pale she looked, and how her voice trembled, when she said, "Will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor, sick mother?" I could not sleep; and I stole into her chamber, to ask forgiveness. She had just sunk into an uneasy slumber, and they told me I must not waken her. I did not tell any one what troubled me, but stole back to my bed, resolved to rise early in the morning, and tell her how sorry I was for my conduct. The sun was shining brightly as I awoke, and hurrying on my clothes, I hastened to my mother's room. dead; she never spoke to me more; never smiled upon me again, and when I touched the hand that used to rest upon my head in blessing, it was so cold it made me start. I bowed down by her side and sobbed in bitterness of my heart. I thought then, I wished I could die, and be buried with her; and old as I now am, I would give worlds were they mine to give, could my mother but have lived to tell me, she forgave my childish ingratitude. But I cannot call her back; and when I stand by her grave, and whenever I think

She was

of her manifold kindness, the memory of that reproachful look she gave me, will "burn like a serpent, and sting like an adder."

LLEWELLYN CUPIDO MICHELS.

A HOTTENTOT OF SOUTH AFRICA.

"God is no respecter of persons; but in every nation, he that feareth him, and worketh righteousness, is accepted with him."Acts x. 34, 35.

(Concluded from page 297.)

On first day (Sunday) morning, the 30th, being told that his medical attendant considered his recovery "very doubtful, he after a pause, observed, “I should like to have lived a little longer; I should like to have gone to Africa;' but added, "the Lord's will must be right. He remarked that, on looking back to his past life, there were many things which gave him great regret, and he said, with much eagerness, "I wish that I had lived nearer to the Lord."

On the fifth of ninth Month, (September) he was asked if he had any message to send to James Backhouse, who was absent from home, engaged in religious service. He replied, "Give my dear love to him, and tell him, I believe this illness has been greatly blessed to me; it has made me feel very thankful for all my blessings, and drawn me nearer to the Lord Jesus. Tell him, I hope his work prospers, and that when it is finished, if we are permitted to meet, it may be with joy in the Lord."

Early in the morning of the eighth, it was remarked to him, what a comfort it was to think that this light affliction was but for a moment in comparison. He replied, "Yes, and in comparison with what?" It was continued, “In comparison with the never-ending joys of eternity." Cupido replied, "Yes, yes," with a sweet smile. After breakfast, being asked if he felt comfortable, he hesitated; but on the words "quiet and peaceful" being added, he immediately assented. It was remarked, what a blessing it was, at such a time to have a compassionate Saviour to flee to

"It is indeed," he replied with emphasis. About noon he appeared much weaker; and on this being noticed to him, and the remark made, that his present state of trial was not likely to last long, he said that he believed it was not, and requested to have a letter read to him which had been received from Jane Williams, the widow of his first Christian care-taker, in which she expressed her desire that, whether he lived or died, the Lord might be his portion for ever, &c. With this he was much pleased; he sent a message of love to her, and spoke of her kind care in keeping him near to her, when he was a little boy, regarding this as a link in the chain of Divine Providence, which had been so wonderfully extended to him, up to the present time; he spoke with joyful anticipation of meeting her husband in heaven, and continued, "O Lord! take care of his children, watch over them as he used to do over us." He again referred to the hope he had entertained of returning to labour in the Lord's vineyard, in his native land; how his heart had yearned to be made instrumental in the conversion of his benighted countrymen, and more especially of his own immediate connections. "My mother, my dear mother, my brothers and sisters," he exclaimed, "O Lord! take thine own work into thine own hands; and, by thy Holy Spirit, visit their hearts, and turn them unto righteousness."

:

In reference to his own state, he said, "I once thought I served the Lord, but when I came to England, I grew proud; since this illness commenced, I have been permitted to see my sins in a very different light from what I ever saw them in before and through Jesus Christ, I have been enabled to repent, and pray earnestly for forgiveness; and I believe that the blood of Jesus has cleansed me from all sin;" and with a countenance beaming with joy and gratitude, he exclaimed, "O Lord! blessed and praised be thy holy name!"

He enquired for a Bible, and wished some passages to be read to him, on being asked in what part, he said, "In Revelations." Several verses in the last chapter were read, and he remarked with great solemnity. "There is one, 'surely I come quickly;"" he then alluded to the 4th verse of the 21st chapter,--" And God shall wipe away all tears