and Mr. Minister there!" looking on the Missionary. Lefevre was distressed. He took the child and kissed it, and gave in silence his hand to the gratified mother. One other, but the hardest of all tasks remained to Lefevre. It was to take leave of his friend. They turned towards each other, yet ventured not to exchange looks. "Charles," said the Missionary, "at ten o'clock I usually commence my private devotions. At that hour I shall always think of you; will you make it sacred to the same recollections and worship?" "I will!" replied Lefevre.. The Missionary took a seal from his watch chain, and gave him. "Keep this," said he," as a token of my friendship." Lefevre accepted it in silence, and taking a silk handkerchief from the few. articles it enveloped, he presented it saying, "And keep that for me." They paused a moment looking on the ground. They raised their eyes. They met each other. Their souls sympathized in unutterable sentiments, They were locked in each other's arms a few instants. They separated. It was for ever! "My friend, my friend!" cried Lefevre as he tore himself away-"We meet in heaven!" said the devout but afflicted Missionary. he must not linger after it. He waved his hand to the whole party, who had been mute and weeping spectators of this parting of the two friends. They acknowledged it by a similar motion, but without a word. He sprang into the boat, and sank on the seat; and all was so still, that the gentle rippling of the waters on the sand was heard. The silence yielded to the treble voice of some of the children, who sang plaintive measure the following stanzas:— "gol-be GENTLE stranger, fare you well, in Ab! be leaves our pebbly shore, We shall see his face no more! Stranger, when you've passed the deep, Heavenly blessings with you dwell!! Blow, ye breezes, kindly blow! This simple effort of gratitude, accompanied by the tears and sobs of the lesser children, recalled Lefevre's thoughts from the pang inflicted, by the last act of separation. As they sang, the boat bore slowly away from the shore, till their voices became one sound, which rose and fell upon the waters softly, sweetly, like the wind sighing in the Eolian harp. The sound was lost. He desired the boatmen to rest the oars. One dying note swelled on the breeze, and faded in his ear. It was the last! He could now no longer distinguish persons. He strained his eye in search of the Missionary, but in vain. 'He could only perceive the waving of handkerchiefs. -Now, these sank in the distance; nothing could be discriminated, but the principal buildings towards the summit of the island. These too disappeared, and nothing, except the lessening land, remained for his eye to rest upon. He looked upon it, as John did on Patmos-the place of his banishment indeed, but the place where, in an eminent degree, he had enjoyed manifestations of the divine favor. It vanished. wholly from his view! He put his face in his handkerchief, and continued for some time motionless. He thought of the perverseness which took him there of the heavenly mercy which had prevented the effects of his own folly of the pleasures which he had found there, in devotion, benevolence, and friendship—and his spirit was melted within him. CHAPTER XXXI. SOON were the sorrows of Lefevre, on leaving Montreal, subdued by the animating recollection, that he was going home. Soon did he arrive at Quebec; and without pausing to see the falls of Montmorenci, or other wonders of the New World, he hastened on board the vessel, that was to convey him to the haven of his country. The anchor was weighed; the sails were unfurled; and the freshening gales pressed heavily upon them. Now they cleared the shipping in the river; now the glistening heights of Quebec were lost. Rapidly did the vessel plough up her path over the gulph of St. Lawrence; and quickly was she riding in majesty, on the swelling, tumultuous waters of the great Atlantic Ocean! |