"Is not that the roof of our house, dear Jane, and the thin smoke curling up among the trees? Many times before have I thought so, and found it only a rock or a mist.”

As evening drew its vale, the hapless wanderers, bewildered, hurried to and fro, calling for their parents, or shouting for help, until their strength was exhausted. Torn by brambles, and their poor feet bleeding from the rocks which strewed their path, they sunk down, moaning bitterly. The fears that overpower the heart of a timid child who for the first time finds night approaching, without shelter or protection, wrought on the youngest to insupportable anguish. The elder, filled with the sacred warmth of sisterly affection, after the first paroxysms of grief, seemed to forget herself, and sitting upon the damp ground, and folding the little one in her arms, rocked her with a gentle movement, soothing and hushing her like a nursling.” "Don't cry! oh! don't cry so, dearest; say your prayers, and fear will fly away."

"How can I kneel down here in the dark woods, or say my prayers, when mother is not by to hear me? I think I see a large wolf, with sharp ears, and a mouth wide open, and hear noises as of many fierce lions growling."

"Dear little Jane, do say, 'Our FATHER, Who art in heaven.' Be a good girl, and when we have rested here a while, perhaps He may be pleased to send some one to find us, and to fetch us home." Harrowing was the anxiety in the lowly hut of the emigrant when day drew toward its close, and the children came not. A boy, their sole assistant in the toils of agriculture, at his return from labour, was sent in search of them, but in vain. As evening drew on, the inmates of the neighbouring house, and those of a small hamlet at a considerable distance, were alarmed, and associated in the pursuit. The agony of the invalid parents through that night was uncontrollable; starting at every footstep, shaping out of every breeze the accents of the lost ones returning, or their cries of misery. While the morning was yet grey, the father, no longer to be restrained, and armed with supernatural strength, went forth, amid the ravings of his fever, to take part in the pursuit. With fiery cheeks, his throbbing head bound with a handkerchief, he was seen in the most dangerous and inaccessible spots-caverns-ravines-beetling cliffs -leading the way to every point of peril, in the phrensy of grief and disease.

The second night drew on, with one of those sudden storms of sleet and snow which sometimes chill the hopes of the young Spring. Then was a sadder sight-a woman with attenuated form flying she knew not whither, and continually exclaiming,

"My children! my children!" It was fearful to see a creature so deadly pale, with the darkness of midnight about her. She heeded no advice to take care of herself, nor persuasion to return to her home.

"They call me! Let me go! I will lay them in their bed myself. How cold their feet are! What! is Jane singing her nightly hymn without me? No, no! She cries! Some evil serpent has stung her!" and, shrieking wildly, the poor mother disappeared, like a hunted deer, in the depths of the forest.

Oh! might she but have wrapped them in her arms, as they shivered in their dismal recess, under the roots of a tree uptorn by some wintry tempest! Yet how could she imagine the spot where they lay, or believe that those little wearied limbs had borne them, through bog and bramble, more than six miles from the paternal door? In the niche which we have mentioned, a faint moaning sound might still be heard.

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Sister, do not tell me that we shall never see the baby any more. I see it now, and Thomas too! dear Thomas ! Why do they say he died and was buried? He is close by me, just above my head. There are many more babies with him—a host. They glide by me as if they had wings. They look warm and happy. I should be glad to be with them and join their beautiful plays. But oh, how cold I am! Cover me close, Mary. Take my. head into your bosom."

"Pray do not go to sleep quite yet, dear Jane. I want to hear your voice, and talk with you. It is so very sad to be waking here alone. If I could but see your face when you are asleep, it would be a comfort. But it is so dark, so dark!"

Rousing herself with difficulty, she unties her apron, and spreads it over the head of the child, to protect it from the driving snow; she pillows the cold cheek on her breast, and grasps more firmly the benumbed hand by which she had so faithfully led her, through all their terrible pilgrimage. There they are! One moves not. The other keeps vigil, feebly giving utterance, at intervals, to a low, suffocating spasm from a throat dried with hunger. Once more she leans upon her elbow, to look on the face of the little one, for whom as a mother she has cared. With love strong as death she comforts herself that her sister slumbers calmly, because the stroke of the destroyer has silenced her sobbings.

Ah! why came ye not hither, torches that gleam through the wilderness, and men who shout to each other? why came ye not this way? See! they plunge into morasses, they cut their path through tangled thickets, they ford waters, they ascend mountains, they explore forests, but the lost are not found!

The third and fourth nights come and depart. Still the woods

are filled with eager searchers. Sympathy has gathered them from remote settlements. Every log-cabin sends forth what it can spare for this work of pity and of sorrow. They cross each other's track. Incessantly they interrogate and reply, but in vain. The lost are not found!

In her mournful dwelling the mother sat motionless. Her infant was upon her lap. The strong duty to succour its helplessness grappled with the might of grief and prevailed. Her eyes were riveted upon its brow. No sound passed her white lips. Pitying women, from distant habitations, gathered around and wept for her. They even essayed some words of consolation. But she answered nothing. She looked not toward them. She had no ear for human voices. In her soul was the perpetual cry of the lost. Nothing overpowered it but the wail of her living babe. She ministered to its necessities, and that heaven-inspired impulse saved her. She had no longer any hope for those who had wandered away. Horrid images were in her fancy; the ravening beast; black pits of stagnant water; birds of fierce beak; venomous, coiling snakes. She bowed herself down to them, and travailed as in the birth-hour, fearfully and in silence. But the helpless babe on her bosom touched an electric chord, and saved her from despair. Maternal love, with its pillar of cloud and of flame, guided her through the desert, that she perished not.

Sunday came, and the search was unabated. It seemed only marked by a deeper tinge of melancholy. The most serious felt it fitting to go forth at that sacred season to seek the lost, though not, like their Master, girded with the power to save. Parents remembered that it might have been their own little ones who had thus strayed from the fold, and with their gratitude took a portion of the mourner's spirit into their hearts. Even the sad hope of gathering the dead for the sepulchre, the sole hope that now sustained their toil, began to fade into doubt. As they climbed over huge trees, which the winds of winter had prostrated, or forced their way among rending brambles, sharp rocks, and close-woven branches, they marvelled how such fragile forms could have endured hardships by which the vigour of manhood was impeded and perplexed.

The echo of a gun rang suddenly through the forest. It was repeated; hill to hill bore the thrilling message: it was the concerted signal that their anxieties were ended. The hurrying seekers followed its sound. From a commanding cliff a white flag was seen to float. It was the herald that the lost were found. There they were-near the base of a wooded hillock, half cradled among the roots of an uptorn chesnut. There they lay, cheek to cheek, hand clasped in hand. The blasts had mingled

in one mesh their dishevelled locks, for they had left home with their poor heads uncovered. The youngest had passed away in sleep. There was no contortion on her brow, though her features were sunk and sharpened by famine.

The elder had borne a deeper and longer anguish. Her eyes were open, as though she had watched till death came; watched over that little one, for whom, through those days and nights of terror, she had cared and sorrowed like a mother. Strong and rugged men shed tears when they saw she had wrapped her in her own scanty apron, and striven with her embracing arms to preserve the warmth of vitality, even after the cherished spirit had fled away. The glazed eyeballs were strained, as if, to the last they had been gazing for their father's roof, or the wreath of smoke that should guide her there.

Sweet sisterly love! so patient in all adversity, so faithful unto the end, found it not a FATHER'S house where it might enter with the little one, and be sundered no more? Found it not a fold whence no lamb can wander and be lost, a mansion where there is no death, neither sorrow nor crying? Forgot it not all its sufferings for joy at that dear Redeemer's welcome, which in its cradle it had been taught to lisp: "Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven?"-Mrs. Sigourney.

RESURRECTION THOUGHTS.
(From the Latin.)

IN that the women came very early to the tomb to seek for the LORD, we have a proof of the devotedness of their love towards Him, in attendance on Whom they hasten to go, as soon as the shadows of night departed, and daylight breaking, they had the opportunity of going. But besides this, they are as it were a typical example to us, that, if we would find the LORD, and be comforted with the presence of angels, we must cast aside the works of darkness, put upon us the armour of light, and walk honestly as in the day. Seeking the LORD, we must shine with the light of good works, and be replenished with the grace of spiritual prayers. Whence it is well said that the women who came to the sepulchre, carried with them the spices which they had prepared. For the words of our prayers are as it were spices, since in them we present to the LORD the desires of our heart; as the Apostle John bears witness, when mystically describing the unpolluted hearts of the saints, he says, "They had golden

phials, full of spices, which are the prayers of the saints." We therefore bear spices in the morning to the tomb of our LORD, when, mindful of the Passion and Death which He endured for us, we show forth to our neighbours the light of good works, and are inflamed in our hearts with the sweetness of holy compunction within, which is indeed our duty at all times, but more especially when we enter the Church for prayer, and when we approach the altar of our LORD to take the mysteries of His Body and Blood. For if so diligently the women sought for the dead body of our LORD, with how much greater reverence should we stand in His sight, and celebrate His mysteries, when we know that He has risen from the dead, ascended into heaven, and by the power of the Divine Majesty is everywhere present! But well is it said, carrying the spices which they had prepared; for we must first prepare the spices which we carrying to offer to the LORD, and purify our hearts, before the time of prayer, from all vain thoughts; so that at the time of prayer we may receive nothing base in our minds, think nothing of things that pass away, remember nothing but the subject-matter of our prayer, and Him Whom we supplicate; after the example of him who says, "My heart is ready, O GOD, my heart is ready! I will sing praises unto the LORD." For he who, entering the Church for prayer, is not careful to cast away all superfluous and vain thoughts from his mind, as seeking GoD, has not brought with him spices already prepared.

2. S. Luke xxiv. "And they found the stone rolled away from the sepulchre. And they entered in, and found not the body of JESUS, &c."

From the account of the evangelist S. Matthew, we learn that an angel coming down from heaven, rolled away the stone from the mouth of the sepulchre; not indeed to make a way for the departure of our LORD, but that the open and empty sepulchre might show to man that He had risen. Mystically, the rolling away of the stone is the revelation of the Divine sacraments, which were heretofore shut up in the hidden letter of the law; for the law was written in stone. Truly to each one of us, when we learnt the truth of the LORD's Passion and Resurrection, was His sepulchre, which had been closed, opened. We also enter the sepulchre, and find not the body of our LORD; when, dwelling in our hearts upon the order of His Incarnation and Passion, we remember that He has risen from the dead, and no longer lives in mortal flesh. But in the case of the Jews and Pagans, who deride the death of our Redeemer, which they believe, and refuse altogether to believe the triumph of His Resurrection, the sepulchre remains as it were closed, and they cannot enter; and seeing the body taken away by resurrection, be con