applicable-" She idolizes her baby." It is idolatry-as hurtful and debasing to the devotee-as great a violation of reason and common sense--as stupid and as accursed, both in theory and in fact, as any other false worship. Where, then, shall we find a remedy? In the truth, told with candour and love, though indignant sobs should swell each doating mother's breast, and hot tears should run in rivers from the loveliest of loving eyes.

Christianity affords a remedy-a grand corrective. We may admit, if that will be of any real service to either party, that even in the old pagan world there were influences which, if allowed to operate freely and fairly, would go far to purge mother-love from this loathsome disease; but, considering the circumstances of the present day, the prevalence of Christian knowledge, Christian profession, Christian morality, Christian ceremonies, and the pretty general power of Christian principles-it is not extravagant to assert, that the only efficient corrective of that human selfishness which, when mingled with natural love, changes all to poison and pestilence, is Christianity. The practical worth of the great central doctrines of the Gospel is not seen to advantage in the present life, unless in some such case as that now under notice. Its claims would shine forth a thousand-fold more clearly if it were brought nigh as a helper and guardian angel to the very springs of domestic and social peace. It may be said, alas! without giving much chance for a striking rejoinder, that professed Christians are, if anything, more in fault, or, at least, more noticeably in fault, than others. We can only say, blame not the medicine, when the patient will persist in swallowing only half of it, or in throwing it altogether away.

Alice Barton idolized her baby. If our duty were consistent with the exercise of charity, we might easily frame. plausible excuses, such as her early orphanhood, her enthusiastic temperament, her desultory and injurious education. But our business is to represent the mischief itself—the evil and often fatal consequences of that seemly and deceptive self-indulgence which has usurped on so many hearths the sacred habit, air, and language of maternal love. We are

concerned to exhibit the evil in its results with a view to a remedial course rather than to account for its existence and to palliate its offensiveness in this particular case. However we may explain the fact, there can be no doubt that it is a most painful and momentous question-how is this untimely and most fatal intrusion of selfishness to be dealt with? To urge that question it will be needful only to tell the story of her love and grief, to give at least a sketch of this young mother in the prime of her new existence as the watcher and nurse of a child, to give an inkling of that love which strung her whole nature to excessive sensitiveness, bought up all she had of love and hope, virtue, patience, meekness, mental power, moral beauty—as with a pearl of great price, which she counted above all cost, the possession of which was all she gloried or trusted in, the loss of which was more than death itself.

Beyond all dispute, she was less outwardly and openly and repulsively idolatrous of her child than most of those who (counting by millions) are obnoxious to this grave charge. For many years the whole power of her passionate nature had been repressed even while she was daily fostering its strength, or had been expended in an entirely different direction, even after she had responded to the touch of the wand which makes all hearts tremble in their turn. True it is that her native pride and her habitual dignity of demeanour were such as to disguise from all but God and her own soul the impetuous character of her new-born love. True, indeed, is it, that the silly exhibitions, idle chattering, and girlish vanity of most young mothers were far enough removed from the grave and silent ecstasy with which she loved her little one. Outwardly, indeed, this addition to her wealth of gladness. produced a tamer mood, a nearer compliance with the routine of social life, more matronly reserve, and more domestic regularity; but not till long after was the truth divulged that she had put strong iron bands of constraint upon herself, lest her love should be construed as folly by reason of its extravagance, and almost ungovernable frenzy. She bent over the little cot for hours when her baby slept. With lips compressed, and clenched teeth-her eyes dim and vacant

till he awoke; and then she wept. Were they tears of relief that he had not died,-or of joy at the thoughts which had been dancing through her brain for hours, and in his sweet smile had found their reality and their recompense ;-or was it but reaction from the long strife of fear and hope-the wrestling of a fearful and unbelieving soul, not with Israel's messenger of grace, but with Saul's evil spirit? She never told the cause; it had been to her as sacrilege to unveil the workings of her maternal love.

THE spring-time of a new year burst suddenly from the caverns of ice and cloud, and its sweet breath brought new draughts of life to the baby-heir; but in the summer heats the darling pined and wasted its little life away. She saw him die-her idol baby, in its little cot-but shed no tear. She had always and only wept at his awaking smile; but he would wake, and she could weep no more. The great grave was opened in the chancel of the little church. The cenotaph of many illustrious men threw wide its gates, to give place' for the baby-heir.

She stood by the vault; but still not to weep. She gave her own flesh to the greedy grave, but felt no pain. She never thought that she should meet him elsewhere. She had no hope, no desire, to embrace her son in the presence of the angels and in the day of God. The very name of Heaven was erased from the tablet of her memory, and the very love she had cherished as a substitute for her loyalty to Christ, the love of husband and of child had been quenched -trodden out like sparks-by the first fell grief. Day and night she watched, and started at every passing sound, but spoke not. She seemed to know who watched with her, moving noiselessly about the bed, or gazing in upon that strong grief; but she replied to his wistful, tearful glance, with calm, dry eyes. After many days she seemed to be at

peace-content, but still silent. She had ceased to listen; her eye ceased its straining, and closed in sleep,—a fitful, troubled slumber, yet better far than that long vigil. Mr. Barton, relieved from immediate care, sought repose or change in his library, and was just falling into a happy slumber, soothed by the words of grace which he had found in the sacred page, when the door of the room was quietly opened, and his wife entered, pale and sad, but erect and stern, and with a mournful tone addressed him-" Henry, where is baby? I have sought him everywhere, and cannot find him. Surely they would not take him out without my morning kiss. Have you hidden him from me, that I may love him more when I see him again? I tell you, dearest, I cannot love him any more. I try, but I cannot; he is my all, and I would leave even you and die to save his little heart one pang. Give him to me, love, for I am weary with waiting. Let me see him, touch him, kiss his little lips, and stroke his pretty head-a moment, only a moment; and you may hide him then-just a little while."

"Ah, dearest, he is hidden from both our eyes-hidden with Christ in God. But you shall one day see him again; and even you will rejoice then that he went so soon to so much bliss. Come to my arms, my loveliest mourning one! God has left you your first love. Ah, let not your tenderness for me lie buried with the babe we both have lost! Yes, BOTH, for my own heart is chilled, and I need the old love to warm it into life. The little one is with Jesus, but I am here, and I will be a child to you as well as husband. Come, my sweet, let us seek the peace of God!"

"And has God robbed me of my child-taken it away for ever? My pretty one! it was not His but mine! I bore it in my womb; I travailed, O how joyously for him! I gave him the strength of my own best life, that he might not die. He was all my own! He loved me alone-not God, nor any but his mother-me only; he clung to me, and nestled in my bosom. I knew he saw a robber near; he started, cried, shrieked, and still clung to his mother's breast. He would not go; he did not want to leave me. He stretched his little hands, as if for help, for pity, for a brief reprieve, that he

might live to whisper mother, and to bring a blessing on her soul. But he would not hear! O cruel, cruel Death! To break my baby's heart, and tear him from his mother!"

"But Death, my dearest one, does but the bidding of the good God. He gave, and He hath taken away. bless His name,-bow to the Smiter's hand!”

Help me to "Bless His name? Why should I bless the slayer of my boy? He gave, say you ;-why did He give? To plant a barbed arrow in my poor heart? He hath taken away, you say. Husband, hear me ! I am not mad, but that lost infantIt comes from the closed vault.

cry rings through my ear. In the still night it pierces the dull close air; and what, think you, is its cry? (With deep emotions half dread.) It bids me rise up, as now I do, curse God, and die. Oh, cruel God! Death is but a poor minion. God has slain my child. I will curse Him as I stand. Would that I might die! (In

a lower meditative tone.) But He will not let me die. He will not hush that shrieking babe! He will wither me away by slow and cruel grief,-call back his angel sleep, when I would woo him to my couch ! Or, He will fill my arms with my baby boy in dreams, then bid me wake to find him gone, to seek him everywhere, and then He will scorn and mock my woe, for I have cursed Him, and again I curse, but still He will not slay me, as He slew my baby."

"He shall not come any more upon the earth, but we shall go to him;" in soft and solemn tone, the afflicted husband said.

"Not any more? Oh, no! I would not have him back to die again! Go to him? Great God, loose the silver cord, and let me go, and I will bless Thee, even evermore, and teach my angel baby to repeat Thy name with praise. Oh, hear me for my baby's sake, and bid Thy death come quickly to me."

The wild prayer was all but answered, A sleep, a fever, a madness, and a lifelong woe fell on that blighted mother. Strong arms unaided, bore her to the chamber she had left, and the strong heart endured for her sake what but for the sovereignty of love, would have broken that heart in pieces. To those who know not that the love of husband and wife