wee

with sin and shame, with misery and despair! But " Davie," with his arm of might, drove the demon out. It happened thus:

One evening when the smith returned home so that " you could know it on him," Davie toddled forward; and his father, lifting him up, made him stand on his knee. The child began to play with the locks of the Sampson, to pat him on the cheek, and to repeat with glee the name of "dad-a." The smith gazed on him intently, and with a peculiar look of love, mingled with sadness. "Isn't he a bonnie bairn?" asked Jeanie, as she looked over her husband's shoulder at the child, nodding and smiling to him. The smith spoke not a word, but gazed intently on his boy, while some sudden emotion was strongly working in his countenance.

"It's done!" he at last said, as he put the child down. "What's wrang? what's wrang? "exclaimed his wife as she stood before him, and put her hands round his shoulders, bending down until her face was close to his.

"Everything is wrang, Jeanie."

"Willie, what is't? are ye no weel? tell me what's wrang wi' you! - oh, tell me!" she exclaimed in evident alarm.

"It's a' right noo. " he said, rising up and seizing the child. He lifted him to his breast and kissed him. Then looking up he said, " Davie has done it, along wi' you, Jeanie. Thank God, I am a free man!"

His wife felt awed, she knew not how.

"Sit doon," he said, as he took out his handkerchief, and wiped away a tear from his eye," and I'll tell you a' aboot it. "

Jeanie sat on a stool at his feet, with Davie on her knee. The smith seized the child's little hand in one of his own and with the other took his wife's.

"I hav'na been what ye may ca'a drunkard, "he said, slowly, and like a man abashed, "but I hae been often as I shouldna have been, and as, wi' God's help, I never, never will be again!”

"Oh! "exclaimed Jeanie.

"It's done, it's done; as I'm a leevin man, it's done! But dinna greet, Jeanie. Thank God for you and Davie my best blessings. "

"Except Himself!" said Jeanie, as she hung on her husband's neck.

"And noo, woman, " replied the smith, "nae mair about Gie wee Davie a piece, and get the supper

it; it's done. ready. "

NORMAN MACLEOD.

ELIZABETH.

Now was the winter gone, and the snow; and Robin the Redbreast,

Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood,

and blithely

All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting, Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and only Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they were building.

With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth Haddon Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and

songless.

Thus came the lovely spring with a rush of blossoms and

music,

Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal.

Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly
Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims,
Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly
Meeting

In the neighboring town; and with them came riding
John Estaugh.

At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alighting Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of the garden;

Then remounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey,

And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid.

But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh: "Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee, Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others; Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth. " And they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing

together.

It was pleasant to breathe the fragrant air of the forest;
It was pleasant to live on that bright and happy May morning!

Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded; "I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee; I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John

And John Estaugh made answer, surprised by the words she had spoken,

"Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness

of spirit;

Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's immacu late whiteness,

Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning. But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me. When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and the labor

completed

He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillness
Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for his guid-

Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit, "So is it best, John Estaugh. We will not speak of it further.

It hath been laid upon me to tell thee this, for to-morrow Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not When I shall see thee more; but if the Lord hath decreed it, Thou wilt return again to seek me here and to find me. And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others.

"

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

Now went on as of old the quiet life of the homestead.
Patient and unrepining Elizabeth labored, in all things
Mindful not of herself, but bearing the burdens of others
Always thoughtful and kind and untroubled; and Hannah

the housemaid

Diligent early and late, and rosy with washing and scouring, Still as of old disparaged the eminent merits of Joseph, And was at times reproved for her light and frothy behavior, For her shy looks, and her careless words, and her evil surmisings,

Being pressed down somewhat, like a cart with sheaves

overladen,

As she would sometimes say to Joseph, quoting the Scriptures.

Meanwhile John Estaugh departed across the sea, and departing

Carried hid in his heart a secret sacred and precious, Filling its chambers with fragrance, and seeming to him in its sweetness

Mary's ointment of spikenard, that filled all the house with its odor.

O lost days of delight, that are wasted in doubting and waiting!

O lost hours and days in which we might have been happy! But the light shone at last, and guided his wavering foot

steps,

And at last came the voice, imperative, questionless, certain.

Then John Estaugh came back o'er the sea for the gift that was offered,

Better than houses and lands, the gift of a woman's affection. And on the First Day that followed, he rose in the Silent

Assembly,

Holding in his strong hand a hand that trembled a little, Promising to be kind and true and faithful in all things. Such were the marriage-rites of John and Elizabeth Estaugh.

And not otherwise Joseph, the honest, the diligent servant, Sped in his bashful wooing with homely Hannah the housemaid;

For when he asked her the question, she answered, "Nay;" and then added

"But thee may make believe, and see what will come of it, Joseph. "

"ELIZABETH. " PARTS III & IV H. W. LONGFELLOW.