again and again upon her unkindness to her sister and Margaret; she opened the sacred volume to read it, and bent the knee in prayer to God; she would enter the room where the corpse was placed, gaze upon it, feel its cold hand, touch with her hand the cold cheek, and sometimes place her own cheek against it, and her tears would flow upon it. The thoughts of the admonitions to which she had listened from those lips, now sealed in the silence of death, would come across her mind; then the remembrance of her father's piety, and her mother's letters, breathing so glowing and happy a devotion, would come afresh to her mind, and she would feel convinced that nothing could be more vain than the world, more valuable than the interests of her soul, more blissful or important than the possession of religion.

Thus the arrow of conviction entered into her soul, and she sought retirement; like the smitten deer, which withdraws itself from the herd, that in secrecy it may bleed alone, so she sequestered herself often from the society of her relatives, to commune with her own soul, and to hold converse with Heaven.

Many were the solemn vows and resolutions which then she formed, and many were the

secret prayers which she put up to God. She determined that the God of her parents and the God of her departed sister should be her God. She seemed almost to realize their presence, as if they had become the inspectors of her conduct; and under this impression felt and acted in a manner different to what hitherto she had done.

Margaret's society was now sought; and as often as she could, she glided from the presence of her aunt, that she might converse with this pious domestic. She learned much more of the history of her parents; dwelt with pleasure in hearing recounted the experience of her sister; and Margaret rejoiced in seeing her earnestly inquiring after the way to Zion, and hoping that the impressions she felt might be salutary and permanent-not like the shadows of the clouds, which only for a season pass over the rocks, spreading a momentary influence, and then quickly passing away never to return.

On the eighth day after her decease the body of Jane was interred; for such is the ordinary practice in England to retain the body as long as conveniently can be done, it being deemed indecent to bury it out of their sight before indications of decay make their

appearance. The funeral solemnities and procession were costly and imposing; but when from a crevice in an upper window Mary beheld the coffin placed within the hearse, a crowd of thoughts rushed upon her mind; a tumult of emotions was excited in her bosom, and rushing from the window she retired to her bedroom, where, for some time, she was the subject of strong hysterical feelings. After a time, she gained relief by a flood of tears. She opened her Bible, and the first words which met her eyes were the pathetic appeal of God by the prophet Isaiah-Wilt thou not from this time cry unto me, my Father, thou art the guide of my youth.' She was struck with the appeal. It seemed as if it had been written for or addressed to her. She lifted her streaming eyes and exclaimed-"Yes, Oh! my God, I will call thee my father; pity thy wretched child, and guide me through every danger to meet my sister and my parents in heaven."

She passed some part of the day in conversation with Margaret, who endeavoured to administer to her spiritual consolation, and to direct her as to her future conduct; and who earnestly entreated her to watch unto

prayer, lest she should, by temptation, be drawn aside from following the Redeemer.

The next day Margaret was discharged, her services being no longer required; but her discharge was by Mrs. Slade, and with expressions of respect; thus this pious young woman found that in the end she was not injured by steady, patient, and faithful service of God; that the word is true which says, "Be not weary in well-doing, for in due season ye shall reap if ye faint not."

CHAPTER IX.

For some days it was not observed by Mr. or Mrs. Slade that any alteration had taken place in the mind of Mary. It is true they observed that she seemed more sedate and thoughtful; but then they attributed it to the influence of the recent death of her sister, and expected this temper would wear off. Already Mr. and Mrs. Slade talked and acted as if nothing of importance had thrown any damp upon their minds, and Jane was forgotten.

They therefore tried to rouse Mary from what they called her mopishness and melancholy.

"My dear Mary," said Mr. Slade, "you are getting so dull that you must be roused. Come, cheer up, I will take you to-night to the play." "I had rather not go, uncle," said Mary.

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Why not?" said he; "I am sure it will dispel your melancholy and do you good." "But I would prefer staying at home, much," said Mary.

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Why, you surely are not becoming religious?" said Mr. Slade, in a tone half jest and half earnest.

"And why should I not, sir ?" said she; "I am sure I should like to die as Jane did, she was so happy."

"Don't talk any of your nonsense to me; 'twill be time enough for you to trouble yourself about that yet."

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No, uncle," said she, "I am sure that my father and mother would not have liked for me to go there."

"Your father and mother?" said he; "what, has that Margaret been saying any thing to you about them?" and he knit his brows and bit his lips with rage.

"Sir, you must not condemn Margaret; Jane