Walter Harland

Very welcome was the first view we gained of the old red farm-house upon our return, and still more welcome was the cheerful and mild countenance of Grandma Adams who, as soon as Uncle Nathan set out to meet the train, had taken her place at the front door to watch for our arrival. It was many years since she had been so long separated from her daughter, and the six weeks which had passed seemed to her more like six years. For so long had my aunt toiled on at the old homestead, "year in and year out" without scarcely bestowing a thought upon the world beyond, that the kindly spirit of sociality had nearly died out within her; but this visit with its many scenes of enjoyment, as well as the kind attentions of her friends, had again called into action that spirit of friendly intercourse with others without the exercise of which the warmest heart is prone to become cold and selfish. She seemed hardly like the same one who left home six weeks ago, as she presided at the supper table with such a cheerful, even lively, manner on this first evening of our return. The Widow Green insisted that my aunt should take no part in the household cares that evening, but advising her to sit idle when there was work to do, was throwing words away, and she was soon busy clearing away the supper table, and, as she said, "setting" things to rights generally. The lamps were soon lighted, and, though it was only the middle of September, a wood fire blazed in the fire place, and shed a ruddy glow upon the brown ceiling and whitewashed walls of the large clean kitchen which when there was no company, answered the purpose of sitting room as well. Uncle Nathan said he thought they should treat Aunt Lucinda as company for that one evening and occupy the parlor, to which kind offer she replied by begging of him "to try and be sensible for one evening at any rate." "Well" said Uncle Nathan, "remember when I go off and visit about for six weeks, as you have done, I shall expect you to have the parlor warmed and lighted on the first evening of my return, for I am sure I could not settle down to every day life all at once." "Well," said Aunt Lucinda, as she seated herself by the lamp, and took up the knitting-work which was ever at hand, to fill up the "odd spells" which she called a few minutes of leisure, "I have made up my mind that in the future I will sometimes enjoy myself a little, and visit my friends, instead of staying at home till I forget there is any other place in the world but this farm, with its dingy old red house and weather beaten barn." "I am very happy to find," replied my uncle, "that you have finally come to the conclusion that we have but one life to live, for by the way you have worked and drove ahead for the last fifteen or twenty years, one would think you had half a dozen ordinary life-times before you and if you have come to the conclusion that you have but one, and a good share of that gone already, perhaps there will be some peace in the house for the time to come." My aunt always complained that her brother had one very serious fault, he was prodigal of time, and took too little thought for the future, and on this ground she replied in rather a snappish voice: "Well, at any rate, if every one was as slack and careless as you, they would hardly survive for one life time; and I can tell you one thing Nathan Adams, this old house has got to be painted, and that right away, for it is a disgrace to be seen. I didn't think so much about it till since I saw how other folks live. You needn't begin, as I know you will, to talk about the expense. You may just as well spend a little money for this as for any thing else; and if as you say 'we have but one life to live,' we will try and spend the remainder of it in a respectable looking house." "What color would you prefer Lucinda," replied my uncle, "I suppose it will have to be of the most fashionable tint. Ah me, this is what comes of women folks going to visit, and seeing the world; I wonder," continued he, with a roguish look at me "if Aunt Lucinda isn't expecting some gentleman from Elmwood to visit her shortly, whom she would dislike should find her in this rusty-looking old house. There's no telling what may grow out of this visit yet." "There's no use in expecting you to talk sensibly," replied my aunt, "but the house will have to be painted, and that's all about it." "Any thing to keep peace," replied Uncle Nathan; "and if you are really in earnest we will see what can be done about it next week, if this fine weather continues, for the old house does need brushing up a little, no mistake." And this was the way matters usually ended. To confess the truth, Uncle Nathan was inclined to be rather careless in matters requiring extra exertion and confusion; but when my aunt once took a decided stand, the matter was soon accomplished, for much as my Uncle enjoyed teasing her, he entertained a high regard for her opinion, and was often willing to trust matters to her judgment as being superior to his own. As they were all busy in various ways, Grandma motioned me to take a seat by her side, and read to her, saying in an undertone, she had had no good reading while I was away, for Nathan reads too fast, and the Widow Green speaks through her nose, "and you don't know how much I have missed your clear voice and plain pronunciation." "What shall I read Grandma," said I, as I turned the leaves of the large Bible. "Oh, first read my favourite psalm which you know is the thirty-seventh, and then read from St. John's Gospel." For an hour she seemed filled with quiet enjoyment while I read, till, becoming tired, she said "that will do for this time, Walter, for you must be tired after your journey." The few days which remained of the week after our return were busy ones; school was to open on the following Monday and there were many matters requiring attention. The painting of the house was begun in due time, and Uncle Nathan thought "Lucinda was going a little too far" when she first proposed adorning the house which, instead of a dingy red, was now a pure white, with green blinds, but she soon (as she said) talked him over to her side, and the first time Deacon Martin's wife passed the homestead after the improvements were completed, she remarked to a friend, that she almost felt it her duty, to call and ask Uncle Nathan if he were not evincing too much love of display, by expending so much money on mere outward adornings. Somehow or other it came to Aunt Lucinda's ears that the good Deacon's wife thought they had better give their money to the cause of, "Foreign Missions" than spend it in so needless a manner. My uncle's family did give liberally when called upon, in this way, and, more than this, they were not inclined to make remarks upon the short-comings of others; but, upon this occasion my aunt replied with much warmth: "If the Deacon's wife has any thing to say to me upon the subject let her come and say it, the sooner the better, and I'll ask her if she remembers the year I was appointed as one of the collectors for the Foreign Missionary Society, and when I called upon her, after she had complained for some time of hard times and the numerous calls for money, put down her name for twenty-five cents, and did not even pay that down, and I had to go a second time for it; if she knows what's for the best she won't give herself any further trouble as to how we spend our money." On the whole I presume it was all the better that the Deacon's wife never called to censure Aunt Lucinda for extravagance in spending money.

The second year which I spent at Uncle Nathan's was one which I often since called to mind as the happiest of my life. The days glided by in the busy routine of school duties, and my evenings were spent in study varied by social enjoyment. I was never too busy to respond to grandma's request that I should leave my lessons or play for an hour and read to her. I had learned to regard this aged relative with much affection; even as a child I believe I was of a reflective cast of mind, and Grandma Adams was the first very old person with whom I had been intimately associated. And often as I sat by her side and watched the firelight as it shone upon her silvery hair, and lighted up her venerable and serene countenance, would I wonder mentally if I would ever grow as old and feeble and my hair become as white as her's. I remember one evening when I was indulging in these thoughts the old lady asked me what I was thinking about that caused me to look so serious? "I was wondering," replied I, "if I shall live to see as many years, and if my eyes will become as dim and my air grow white as yours." "My dear boy," she replied, "I suppose I seem to you like one who has travelled a long journey. At your age, ten or twenty years seemed to me almost an endless period of time, but now that I have seen more than eighty years of life the whole journey seems very short, when taking a backward view of the path over which I have travelled. It seems but as yesterday since I was a little mischief-loving school girl, when my only anxiety was how I could obtain the most play, and get along with the least study. I used then often to think how glad I would be when my school-days should be over; but how little did I then realize that I was then enjoying my happiest days; for, with many others, I now believe, our school days to be the happiest period of life. Time passed on, till I grew up, and married. I left my native place which was Salem, in the State of New Hampshire, and removed to Western Canada. When you look around, my boy, over this prosperous and growing country, with its well-cultivated farms, and numerous towns and villages, you can form no idea of what the place was like when I arrived here, fifty-six years ago last February. Your grandfather was born, and passed the days of his childhood and early youth, in Scotland, but when he was nearly grown to manhood his parents emigrated to the United States, where he resided for some years; but as he grew older he became prejudiced against the 'Yankee Rule,' as he styled the Republican Government of the United State, and, soon after our marriage, he resolved to remove to Canada. 'I desire,' said he, 'to seek a home where I hope to spend my life, be it long or short, and that home must be in a country subject to the British Government under which, I am proud to say, I was born, and under which I wish to die.' I was willing to make any sacrifice to please my husband, for whom I had a deep affection," and, as grandma said these words, youthful memories moistened her eyes and caused her voice to tremble, but she soon regained her composure, and continued: "I was then young and full of hope, and the trials which I knew would fall to my lot gave me no anxiety. The weather was bitter cold, during all that weary journey to our forest home in Canada. We had been married less than a year when we left our friends in New Hampshire to seek a home in this new country. The summer before my husband visited the place to purchase a lot of wild land, and build the log cabin which was to be our first shelter in the Canadian wilderness. Much as he had told me, I had formed but a very imperfect idea of the appearance of the place, till after a ten days' journey (by slow teams) through the deep snows which often impeded our way, we reached, near nightfall, the small log-hut which was to be our home. I had ever thought I possessed a good share of fortitude and resolution, but at that time it was put to a severe test. 'There Martha, is our home,' said my husband, pointing to the rude pile of logs, which stood in a cleared space, barely large enough to secure its safety from falling trees, and beyond all was a dense forest of tall trees and thick underbrush and a fast falling shower of snow (at the time) added to the gloominess of the scene. I gazed around me with sadness, almost with dismay and terror. At length I found voice to say 'can we live here.' 'I have no doubt that we can live here, and be happy too,' replied your grandfather in a hopeful voice, 'if it pleases God to grant us health and strength to meet and, I trust, overcome, the difficulties and hardships which are the inevitable lot of the early settlers in a new country.' A man whom Mr. Adams had hired had gone before us that we might not find a fireless hearth upon our arrival; and the next day, after having become somewhat rested from the fatigues of our toilsome journey, and having arranged our small quantity of furniture with some attempt at order, I began to feel something akin to interest in our new home; but, to a person brought up as I had been, it was certainly a gloomy-looking spot; and I must own that I shed some tears for the home I had left. We were three miles from any neighbour, and in the absence of my husband I felt a childish fear of being left alone in that strange wild looking place. Time would fail me to tell you of all the hardships and privations we endured during the first years of our residence in this our new home. Lucinda there was our first child. I buried a little boy younger than Nathan. A few kind settlers gathered together and laid him in his grave without a minister to perform the rites of burial. I buried another son and daughter, and all that's left to me now are Lucinda and Nathan, and your mother, who was my youngest child; as my children grew older I learned the value of the tolerable education I had myself received. For many years such a thing as a school was out of the question, and all the leisure time I could command I spent in teaching my children. Nathan was slow at learning, but it did beat all, how smart Lucinda was at her book. I could never tell how she learned her letters; I may say she picked them up herself, and with a very little assistance was soon able to read. Other settlers came among us from time to time, and bye-and-bye we had both a school and a meeting-house. I tell you, Walter, when I now sit at the door, and look around me over the beautiful farms, with their orchards and smooth meadow-lands, and further away the gleaming spire of the village church, and hear the sharp shriek of the locomotive (I believe they call it) and call to mind the log-hut in the depth of the forest, which was, my first home on this farm, I am lost in wonder at the changes which have taken place, and I cannot help repeating the words, 'old things have passed away, behold all things have become new.' Your grandfather lived to a good old age, and, when infirmities obliged him to resign the care of the farm to our boy Nathan he enjoyed the fruits of his former industry in the comforts of a home of plenty, and the care and attention of our dutiful children. As for me I do not now look forward to a single day. I have already outlived the period of natural life and feel willing to depart whenever an all-wise Providence sees fit to remove me; but I would not be impatient and would say from my very heart: 'All the days of my appointed time will I wait till my change comes.' And now, Walter, read to me, for it is past my usual time of retiring to rest." As I closed the book (after reading for half an hour) Grandma said, "I have read myself, and heard others read the Bible these many years, yet each time I listen to a chapter, I discover in it some new beauty which I had never noticed before. Truly the Bible is a wonderful book; it teaches us both how to live and how to die."

"I wish you would go over to the post office, Nathan," said my aunt one evening in the latter part of winter; "none of us have been over to Fulton this week, and who knows but there may be letters," "Who knows indeed!" replied Uncle Nathan, "I am as you say a careless mortal, and never inquired for letters the last time I was over, so I'll just harness up and drive over this clear moonlight evening." He returned in an hour's time and soon after entering the house, handed a letter to my aunt saying, "read that and see what you think of it." Seating herself and adjusting her glasses, she unfolded the letter, and perused it carefully; but any one acquainted with her would at once have been aware, by the expression of her countenance, as she read, that the communication, whatever it was, was not of an agreeable nature. The letter was from a cousin residing in the State of Massachusetts whom they had not seen for many years, but who used in his youthful days to be a frequent visitor. Indeed it would seem, by all accounts, that he was fonder of visiting than of any regular employment. This cousin, Silas Stinson, had grown up to manhood with no fixed purpose in life. As a boy he was quick at learning, and obtained a fair education, which, as he grew older, he was at much pains to display by using very high-flown language, which often bordered upon the flowery and sublime. I believe in their younger days Aunt Lucinda used to allow "it fairly turned her stomach to hear the fellow talk." He was a dashing, showy follow when young, and was soon married to a delicate and lady-like girl, just the reverse of what his wife should have been. A woman like Aunt Lucinda would have given him an idea of the sober realities of life, but the disposition of the wife he chose was something like his own, dreamy and imaginative, with none of the energy necessary to face the trials and difficulties which lie in the life-path of all, in a greater or less degree. He had tried various kinds of business but grew weary of each in its turn. At the time of his marriage his father set him up in a dry-goods store, and, had he given proper attention to his business, would probably have become a rich man. For a time things went on swimmingly, but the novelty of the thing wore off, and he soon felt like the clerk who told his employer "he only liked one part of the business of store-keeping, and that was shutting the blinds at night." After trying various kinds of business, with about equal success, he got the idea, and a most absurd one it was, that farming "was his proper vocation." His indulgent father again assisted him, by purchasing for him a small farm, thinking he would now apply himself and make a living. His father maintained a kind of oversight of matters during his life-time, but in process of time he died, and Silas was left to his own resources. His father's property was divided among the surviving children, and it was found that Silas had already received nearly double his share of the patrimony, so, of course, nothing remained for him at the time of his father's death. Necessity at length drove him to mortgage his home, and he never paid even the interest on the claim, and when the above mentioned letter was written, the term of the mortgage was nearly expired, and he must soon seek another home for his family. Such was the idle whimsical being who now wrote to these relatives to know what they thought of his removal to Canada, and only waited, as he said, to see what encouragement they could give him adding that he was willing to work and only asked them to assist him in getting his family settled till he could look about him a little and see what was to be done, signing himself their attached but unfortunate cousin. But the professed attachment of her Cousin Silas failed to call up a very pleased expression of countenance as my aunt refolded the letter, saying, "Well if this isn't a stroke of business, then I'm mistaken. What are you going to do about it Nathan Adams?" "I can't answer that question just yet," said my uncle, reflectively. "I think we'd better all have a night's sleep before we say any more about it." They felt in duty bound to reply to the letter, but what reply to make was an unsettled question for several days. They were aware that, for all their cousin's professed willingness to work, the care of his family would in all probability devolve upon them, for some time at any rate. But Grandma Adams had tenderly loved her brother, Silas' father, and at length by her advice a favourable reply was written. "I can tell, you one thing," said Aunt Lucinda, after the letter was sent away, "I cannot, and will not have Silas Stinson's family move in here, for if he has no more method in governing his children than in other things we might as well have as many young Indians right out of the Penobscot Tribe brought into the house. I am willing to help them as far as I can, but bringing them into the house is out of the question." "I'll tell you what you can do, Nathan," said grandma, "you know there's an old house on that piece of land you bought of Squire Taylor last fall, and you just fix it up as well as you can, and let them live in it this summer, and by the time another winter comes you can see further about it; perhaps by keeping round with Silas you may get some work out of him on the farm this summer, and his family must have a home of some kind. Providence has been very kind to us, and we must lend them a helping hand." "I dare say," replied my aunt, in her usual sharp manner, "that Providence has done as much for Cousin Silas as for us, only while we have toiled early and late, he has been whiffling about from one thing to another, trying to find some way to live without work; but I guess he'll learn before he's done that he'll have to work for a living like other people. But I suppose, Nathan as they've got to come you'd better see about fixing up that old house right away. If there was only himself and wife, I'd try and put up with them here for a while, but with their five wild tearing children—it makes me shudder to think of it!"

When the matter of Cousin Silas' removal to Canada became a settled thing it appeared less terrible than upon first consideration. April arrived, bringing it's busy season of sugar-making, and it's mixture of sunshine and showers. Amid the hurry of work Uncle Nathan found time to give some attention to the matter of repairing the house, for the reception of the expected new-comers. Aunt Lucinda said she supposed her mother was right, and it was their duty to extend a helping hand to Cousin Silas, but at the same time it appeared to her that the path of duty really did have a great many difficult places, and she supposed as we could not go round about them we must keep straight forward and get over the hard places as well as we could. Preparations went on apace, and before the last of April the repairs on the house were completed. I was still studying hard, expecting this to be my last year at school. Of all the family I had become most attached to my aged grandma, whose life was evidently drawing near the close. She liked to have me near her, and, to her, no other reading was like mine; and the best which any one else could do, fell far below my services in waiting upon her; and my uncle and aunt often wondered what mother would do when the time came that I must leave them. Considerate ones, spare yourselves these forebodings, for, before I shall have left your family-circle, your aged mother will have been called to enjoy that rest which remaineth to all who live the life she has lived. It was thought by many to be somewhat singular that a youth of my age should have been so happy and contented in the quiet dwelling of my uncle, whose youngest occupants were middle-aged, and they could not be supposed to have much sympathy with the thoughts and feelings of youth. I had gone there in the first place merely to obey the wishes of my mother, which had ever been as a law unto me. I loved my uncle from the first, and, instead of feeling anger at the distrust with which my aunt was inclined to regard me, I felt a sort of pity for the lonely woman, and resolved, if possible, to teach her by my conduct that I was not altogether so bad as she supposed; and my kindness to her soon softened a heart which had become somewhat unfeeling, from having so few natural ties, as well as for want of intercourse with the world at large; and I learned that my attempts to please her, especially when they involved self-sacrifice, made me all the happier, so true it is that "it is more blessed to give than to receive."

And in time I learned to love my home at the old farm house, with an affection so deep that the thought of leaving it was very unpleasant to me. I had also become much attached to my kind teacher and his family, and thought with pain of a separation from them. But the time was now drawing nigh when, like every youth who must depend upon his own exertions for success, I must go forth to make my own way in the world. By diligent study I had acquired an education which would enable me to fill a position of trust and responsibility, when I should have gained a practical knowledge of business. My mind turned toward mercantile pursuits, and it was my intention (after leaving school) to seek a situation where I could obtain experience in business.

Winter had gradually melted away before the genial sun and warm rains of spring, till the snow had entirely disappeared, and the fields began to wear a tinge of green, with many other indications that summer was about to revisit the earth. There is something very cheering in the return of spring after enduring for a lengthened period the rigors of winter. The waters are loosed from their icy fetters, and sparkle with seemingly renewed brightness in the glad beams of the sun, and all nature seems to partake of the buoyant spirit called forth by this happy season. The song of birds fill the air, and they seem in their own way to offer their tributes of praise to the kind and benevolent Father, by whose direction the seasons succeed each other in their appointed order. All were busy at the farm. Uncle Nathan was beginning to look up his "help" for the labors of the summer, and my aunt was equally busy within doors. Grandma is still there, always contented and always happy, for the old-fashioned leather-covered Bible, which lies in its accustomed place by her side, has been her guide through the period of youth and middle-age, and now, in extreme old age, its promises prove, "as an anchor to her soul, both sure and steadfast." The Widow Green is at present an inmate of the dwelling, as she often is in busy seasons. A letter has lately been received from Cousin Silas, saying he hoped it would afford them no serious disappointment if he postponed the proposed journey to Canada for a time, and added, by way of explanation, that his wife was anxious to revisit the scenes of her childhood in the State of Maine, before removing to Canada, and, as he considered it the duty of every man to make the happiness of his wife his first consideration, he was for this reason obliged to defer the proposed removal for the present. Had he seen the look of relief which passed over my aunt's countenance as she read the letter, he certainly would have felt no fears of her suffering from disappointment by their failing to arrive at the time expected. "I only hope," said she, "that his wife may find the ties which bind her to the scenes of her childhood strong enough to keep her there, and I am certain I shall not seek to sever them." "I am afraid Lucinda," said her mother, "that your heart is not quite right." "Perhaps not mother," she replied, "I try to do right, but I can't help dreading the arrival of that lazy Silas Stinson and his family; he was always too idle to work and when they are once here we cannot see them suffer, so I see nothing for us but to support them." "Let us hope for the best" said the old lady, "he may do better than you think, and it's no use to meet troubles half way."

The preceding winter had been one of unusual severity, and, as is often the case in the climate of Canada where one extreme follows another, an early spring had given place to an intensely hot summer. The school had closed, but I was to remain with Uncle Nathan till autumn, when I was to return to my home at Elmwood for a short time before seeking a situation. It was the tenth of August, a day which will be long remembered by the dwellers in and around Fulton. For many weeks not a drop of rain had fallen upon the dry and parched ground, and the heat from the scorching rays of the sun was most oppressive. Day and night succeeded each other with the same constant enervating heat. Sometimes the sun was partially obscured by a sort of murky haze, which seemed to render the air still more oppressive and stifling, and all nature seemed to partake of the universal languor; not a breath of air stirred the foliage of the trees, and the waters of the river assumed a dull motionless look, in keeping with the other elements. "This day does beat all," said the Widow Green as she came in, flushed and heated from the dairy room. "I thought," replied my aunt, "I could bear either heat or cold as well as most people, but this day is too much for me. I cannot work, and I would advise you to give over too." "I remember a summer like this thirty years ago," said Grandma, "the same heat continued for nine weeks, and then we had a most terrible storm, and after that we had no more to say very warm weather the rest of the season; and I am pretty sure there is a tempest brooding in the air to-day, by the dull heavy feeling about my head, which I always experience before a thunder-storm."

The heat had become so intense by noon that Uncle Nathan and his hired men did not attempt to go back to the fields after dinner, but sat listlessly in the coolest part of the house; they made some attempt to interest each other in conversation, but even talking was an exertion, and they finally relapsed into silence, and, leaning back in his chair, Uncle Nathan's loud breathing soon indicated that in his case the heat as well as all other troubles were for the present forgotten in sleep. A change came over the heavens with the approach of evening, a breeze sprung up, scattering the misty haze which had filled the air during the day, and disclosing a pile of dark clouds in the western sky, which seemed to gather blackness as they rose. "It's my opinion," said Grandma, who had carefully observed the weather during the day, "that the storm will burst about sunset," and true enough it did burst with a violence before unknown in that vicinity. I had gone to the far-off pasture to drive home the cows at the usual time for milking. The huge pile of clouds, which for hours had lain motionless in the west, now rose rapidly toward the zenith, and hung like a funeral pall directly over our heads. The tempest burst in all its fury before I reached home, clouds of dust filled the air, which almost blinded me, and almost each moment was to be heard the crash of falling trees in the distant forest. The thunder, which at first murmured faintly, increased as the clouds advanced upward, till by the time I reached home it was indeed terrific. They were all truly glad when I burst suddenly into the house drenched with rain, and completely exhausted. The cows remained unmilked for that night, a thing which Aunt Lucinda said had never happened before since her recollection. Flash after flash of vivid lightning filled the otherwise darkened air, succeeded by the deep heavy roll of the thunder. It was noticed by those who witnessed this storm, that the lightning had that peculiar bluish light which is sometimes, but not often, observed during a violent summer tempest. The inmates of our dwelling became terrified. The Widow Green crept to the darkest corner of the room and remained with her face bowed upon her hands. "I am no safer," said she, "in this corner than in any other place, but I do not like to sit near a window while the lightning is so bright and close at hand." Even my aunt, self-possessed as she usually was, showed visible signs of alarm, and truly the scene would have inspired almost any one with a feeling of terror, mixed with awe, at the sublime but awful war of the elements. The wind blew a perfect hurricane, and the rain fell in torrents, and, quickly succeeding the flashes of forked lightning, peal after peal of thunder shook the house to its foundation. Grandma Adams was the only one who seemed to feel no fear; but there was deep reverence in her voice as she said, "Be not afraid my children; for the same Voice which calmed the boisterous waves on the Sea of Galilee governs this tempest, and protected by Him we need not fear." The storm lasted for hours and increased in violence till Grandma said, "the storm of thirty years ago was far less severe than this." The rushing of the wind and rain, the deep darkness, except when lighted by the glare of the vivid lightning, with the awful roll of the thunder, altogether formed a scene which tended to inspire a feelings of deep awe mingled with terror. There had been a momentary lull in the tempest, when the air was filled with a sudden blaze of blinding light, succeeded by a crash of thunder which shook the very ground beneath our feet. "That lightning surely struck close at hand," said Uncle Nathan, as he opened the door and looked out into the darkness, and a few moments after the cry of "fire" added to the terrors of the storm. A barn belonging to a neighbor who lived a mile distant from us, had been struck by that flash, and was soon wrapped in flames. It was a large building, with timbers and boards like tinder, and was filled with hay, and it was well-nigh consumed before assistance could reach the spot, and it was with much difficulty that the flames could be kept from the other buildings on the premises, indeed several of the neighbours were obliged to remain on the spot most of the night. The storm continued with unabated fury till after midnight and then gradually died away, and from many a home a prayer of thanksgiving ascended to Heaven, for protection amid the perils of that long-to-be-remembered storm.

I believe there is a power and solemnity in the near approach of death which often makes itself felt even before it invades a household; and something of this kind was experienced by the change which came over Grandma Adams about this time. It would have been difficult for her dearest friends to have explained in what the change consisted; but a change there certainly was which impressed all who saw her. She still sat in her arm-chair, she suffered no pain, and her countenance was cheerful and happy, and her intellect seemed unusually strong and clear; but to the eye of experience it was evident that this aged pilgrim, who for more than eighty years had trod the uneven and often toilsome journey of life, would soon be forever at rest. The Widow Green remarked to my aunt one day in a mysterious whisper, "that she was sure grandma was drawing near the brink of the dark river, and the bright expression of her countenance was but a reflection of the happiness in store for her on the other side." Strong and self-reliant as was my aunt, the death of her mother was something of which she could not bear to speak, and the widow was one who so often talked of dreams and mysterious warnings, that my aunt usually paid little heed to her remarks in this respect. But she could not reason away the change in her mother's appearance. Her mother had been so long spared to her that she had almost forgotten that it could not always be thus, and the All-wise Father, who sees the end from the beginning, willed it that the sudden death of her aged and pious mother should in a great measure be the means of preventing her from placing her affections too much on the perishable things of earth. One evening, when I closed the Bible after spending the usual time in reading to grandma, she said: "If you are not tired, Walter, read for me once more my favorite psalm." I read the psalm from the beginning in a clear distinct voice as I knew pleased her best, and when I had finished she said: "You have often, dear Walter, during the two past years forsaken your books or your play to read to me, and you have been to me a great blessing, and you will be rewarded for it, for respect and veneration from youth toward age and helplessness is a noble virtue, and the youth who pays respect to the aged will be prospered in his ways." There was something in the look and manner of my aged relative which affected me strangely. Her countenance looked unusually bright and happy, and her words had an earnestness of expression which I had never noticed before. At the time I knew but little of the different ways in which death approaches, and was not aware that with the very aged the lamp of life often burns with renewed brightness just before it goes out forever. After a short silence, grandma spoke again, saying, "Have you ever read Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, Walter?" I replied that I had, and she continued: "You may remember that when an order was sent for one of the pilgrims to make ready to cross the 'dark river', the messenger gave him this token that he brought a true message, 'I have broken thy golden bowl and loosed thy silver cord.' I think I have the same token, Walter. I feel that the golden bowl is well-nigh shattered, and the silver cord of my life is loosening, and soon the last strand will be severed, and to me it is rather a matter of joy than of sorrow. I know in whom I have believed, and all is peace. Continue, my child, as you have begun in life, and should you be spared to old age you will never regret following my advice. And now I must go to rest, for I am weary, and would sleep." Her words awed me deeply; but surely, thought I, grandma cannot die while she seems so well and so like herself. The words she had spoken so agitated my mind that it was long after I retired to rest, before I slept, and when at length slumber stole over my senses, I dreamed that a being beautiful and bright stood at my bedside, who was like Grandma Adams, only decrepitude and age had all disappeared, and a beauty and brightness, such as I am unable to describe, had taken their place. A smile rested upon her countenance, as she seemed in my dream, for a moment, to raise her hands above my head in blessing, when she disappeared from my view, and I awoke. But even while I dreamed, the angel of death came with noiseless step, and severed the last strand in the cord of grandma's life, and who shall say that her spirit was not permitted to hover for a moment, in blessing, over the youth so dear to her, before taking its final leave of earth.

Upon going to her mother's room the next morning, my aunt found that she had passed from the sleep of repose to the deeper sleep of death. Thinking that possibly life still lingered, they immediately summoned the physician, but after one glance at the still features, he addressed my aunt, saying, "Your mother has been a long time spared to you, but she has gone to her rest." Even death dealt gently with the aged one whom every one loved. There was no sign of suffering visible, for as she sank to sleep, even so she died without a struggle, and a smile still seemed to linger upon her aged but serene countenance. I believe there are few who have not at some period of their life been called to notice the change which a few short hours will bring over a household. A family may have lived on for years with no break in the home circle, and every thing connected with them have moved on with the regularity of clockwork, when some sudden and unlooked-for event will all at once change the very atmosphere of their home. Owing to her advanced age, Grandma Adams' death could hardly be supposed to have been unlooked for, yet so it was.

For so many years had she occupied her accustomed place in the family circle with health seemingly unimpaired, that her children had almost forgotten to realize that a day must come when she would be removed from their midst, and the place which then knew her would know her no more forever. Very silent and gloomy was the old farm-house, during the days Grandma Adams lay shrouded for the grave. A hush seemed to have fallen over the darkened rooms, and the soft footsteps of friends and neighbors as they quietly passed in and out, all told the story of death and bereavement. Funeral preparations were something for which the Widow Green seemed peculiarly adapted, and her presence was ever sought in the house of mourning. She was a very worthy woman, and much respected by the people of Fulton, among whom she had resided for many years; but along with many estimable qualities she had also her failings and weak points; she had an undue zest for whatever partook of the marvellous or mysterious, her education was extremely limited, and her method of reasoning was not always most clear and logical. She was a firm believer in signs and omens, as warnings of death and other misfortunes, and very few events of this kind took place in the vicinity of which the Widow Green, according to her own statement, was not favored with a warning. But some of the neighbors were often heard to assert that many of her warnings were never spoken of till after the event happened. But setting aside this weakness, and the Widow Green was a kind and useful woman in the vicinity where she resided.

A conversation to which I listened between the Widow Green and Mrs. Waters, another neighbor who assisted in the preparations for the funeral, filled me with astonishment, it being the first time I had ever listened to any thing of the kind. It was the night before the burial and the two women were busily employed in making up mourning for the family; I was seated quietly in a corner of the room, and if they were aware of my presence they did not allow it to interfere with the conversation which they carried on in that low tone which people mostly use in the house of death. "Do you believe in warnings?" said the Widow Green, addressing Mrs. Waters. "Most sartinly I do, and with good reason," was the reply. "For many and many a time I have been warned of sickness and death in the neighborhood." The stillness and lateness of the hour, together with the employment of the women, surrounded as they were with crape and black cloths of different kinds, struck me with a feeling of superstitious awe; and I listened to their conversation as children listen to a story which fills them with terror, while yet they are unwilling to lose a word. "It was only last winter," continued Mrs. Waters, "just before old Mr. Harris died—you remember him, he lived, you know, over on the east road toward the pond—as I was saying, one night about nine o'clock, there came two quick raps at our front door, as loud almost as if you had struck with a hammer; Waters was just lighting his pipe at the kitchen fire, and he gave such a spring when the sudden thumps came on the door that he upset a pitcher of yeast I had left by the fire to rise, of course that was of no consequence, and I only mention it as a circumstance connected with the warning, and to let you know that he was frightened, for you know for a general thing he kind o' makes light o' these things and says 'all old women, who drink green tea, have dreams and wonderful warnings.' As I was sayin', he ran to unbolt the door, without stoppin' to pick up the broken jar, and of course no one was there. 'Now,' said I, 'perhaps you will believe in warnings, for if ever there was a warning that was one.' 'I believe', said he, 'that some of the boys that know how foolish you are, are trying to frighten you.' 'I wonder which was most frightened', said I, 'for I didn't upset the yeast jar at any rate,' and the next day when we got word that old Mr. Harris died at nine o'clock the night before, he looked kind o' sober, and said, 'well it is singular, that is certain,' and I could never get another word out of him about it, but you may know he thought it was a serious matter, for the very next time he went over to the village he brought me home a much nicer jar than the old one, without me as much as reminding him of it, and most always I have to tell him half a dozen times before I can get him to remember any little thing of that kind." They went on with their work for a few moments in silence, when the Widow Green, sinking her voice almost to a whisper, said: "I will tell you, Mrs. Waters, but you mustn't mention it for the world, we had two warnings over at our house of Grandma Adams' death. It's better than a month ago, I dreamed of bein' over here, helping to make up all kinds of finery for a weddin', and you know to dream of a weddin' is a sure sign of a funeral; and the next mornin' I said to my daughter Matilda Ann, there will certainly be a death over at Nathan Adams' before long. I didn't say nothin' to any one else, but kept kind o' ponderin' it in my mind, and then one night, about sunset, last week, our dog Rover went over on the hill and sat with his face toward here and give the mournfulest howls I ever did hear. I sent my boy Archibald to call him in, for I couldn't bear to hear it. The dog wouldn't stir, and the boy dragged him into the house by main strength, and I shut him up in the back-kitchen, but the first time the door was opened he sprung out, in less than a minnit he was over on the hill again, and set up them awful howls a second time, and if that wasn't a warnin' I don't know what would be one." The widow had a very appreciative listener in the person of Mrs. Waters, and I know not how many experiences of a similar kind might have been related, had not the entrance of my aunt put a sudden check upon their conversation; for they both knew her sufficiently well, to be aware that a conversation of this kind would not for a moment be tolerated in her hearing. It was something entirely new to me, and it kept me awake for a long time after I retired to rest. Can it be, thought I, that an All-wise Providence makes known by such means, events which are not revealed to the wisest and best of mankind: and young as I was, I banished the idea, as an absurdity, and to quiet my mind, I began repeating to myself what had been grandma's favorite psalm, and before I reached the close fell quietly asleep. In after years, the conversation between these two women often recurred to my mind, and more than once I have smiled at the recollection of the broken yeast-jar.

But they verily believed their own statements, having listened to stories of a similar kind since their own childhood; a belief in them almost formed a part of their education, and having never set reason at work upon the subject, they were sincere in their belief that events are often foreshadowed by those superstitious signs which formed the topic of their conversation.

The funeral was over with its mourning weeds and solemn burial service, and all that was earthly of Grandma Adams rested in the grave; but what shall we say of those she has left in their now lonely home? My uncle and aunt were still as deeply attached to their mother as in the days of their childhood and youth, and her age and utter dependence upon them for years past had all the more endeared her to their hearts, and when she was thus suddenly removed a blank was left in their home which they felt could never again be filled. But the affairs of life do not stand still, and we are often obliged to take up again the realities of life, with the tears of bereavement and anguish still upon our cheeks, and even this may be wisely ordered to prevent us from indulging our grief, even to a morbid melancholy. But lonely enough seemed the house when the kind friends and neighbors had all again departed to their homes, and we were left alone. There was grandma's arm-chair with the little stand for her large Bible, her glasses lay upon its worn cover, even as she had laid them aside on the last night of her life. Many had offered to remove them, but my aunt would not allow them to be disturbed, and it was several days after the funeral that I quietly removed them to another room while my aunt was busied elsewhere, and she never questioned me as to why I had done so. From the day of her mother's death my aunt was a changed woman, her disposition seemed softened and subdued, and if, from long habit, she sometimes spoke in sharp quick tones, she was gentle and far more forbearing with the failings of others than formerly. Uncle Nathan said but little, but it was easy to see that the loss of his aged mother was much in his mind; and often was he seen to brush away a tear when his eye rested upon the vacant corner. It was not long after this that they received a letter from cousin Silas, informing them that he expected to arrive with his family in a few days. Aunt Lucinda never uttered an impatient word, but began quietly to make preparations for their reception. Very likely she remembered what her mother had said sometime before. It is very often the case that advice which we give little heed to while the giver is in life and health becomes a sacred obligation after their death. Almost every day she went over to the house which was to be their home, and spent several hours in putting it in order, and when they arrived, a comfortable home awaited them. Cousin Silas was, as may be supposed, a much talking, do-nothing kind of a man, his language was plentifully adorned with flowery words, to which he often added scripture quotations, although seemingly he took little pains to inculcate in his own family the principles taught in that sacred volume. When, soon after his arrival, he was informed of their late bereavement, he made a long, and I suppose very appropriate speech, but I am inclined to think, it failed to carry much consolation to his listeners. It would be difficult for one to imagine a more disorderly family than was that of Cousin Silas, and yet strange to say he seemed to regard his wild unmanageable children as models of perfection. His own imagination was very fertile, and he really indulged the illusion that they were all he would have liked them to be. His wife, her spirits broken down by poverty and care, had long since ceased to make the best of the little left in her hands, and her family government was also extremely nominal in its nature, so that their arrival at Uncle Nathan's, to say the least of it, was not a desirable affair. There were five children altogether. I believe it would have been hard to find a worse boy than their eldest son Ephraim, aged about fourteen. The next in age was George Washington, but I am certain, had he lived in the days of that illustrious man, he would have looked upon his namesake with any other feeling rather than pride. Ephraim had one way, and George Washington had another. The eldest was noisy and boisterous and delighted in malicious fun, and was continually, as the neighbors said, "up to some kind of mischief;" while the other was too indolent even to do mischief; he had one of those disagreeable sulky natures which we sometimes meet with always grumbling and out of humor with himself and every one else. Then there were three little girls, and all that caused them to be less troublesome than the boys, was, that they were younger; the youngest was little more than a babe and gave the least trouble of either of the five. They remained at Uncle Nathan's for two or three days before removing to the home prepared for them; and they certainly were not an agreeable addition to our quiet household. I could not have believed it possible that my aunt could have borne the annoyance with so much patience. She went about quietly and made the best of the matter, altogether unlike my Aunt Lucinda of two years ago, and I believe she had a feeling of pity for the weary-looking mother of this disorderly family; she did remark to the Widow Green, on the day of their removal, that "she believed if they had staid much longer, her head would have been turned with their noise and confusion." But they were gone at last, and assisted by the Widow Green my aunt went from room to room, and endeavored again to bring order out of the mass of litter and confusion; remarking that the house looked as though it had been turned upside down, and it did really seem pleasant when, after two days' labor, the rooms were again put to rights, and the dwelling brought back to its usual state of cleanliness and order. My aunt said, "it seemed a waste of labor to fit up a home for a family who didn't know how to take care of it; but then," added she, "if we do our duty, it wont be our fault if they fail to do theirs." In a few days she went over to see how they were getting along, and allowed upon her return that she had serious fears the children would pull her in pieces. In spite of their mother's feeble attempts at authority, the little girls pulled at the ribbons on her cap, picked at her cuff-buttons, and one of them made a sudden snatch at her brooch, my cherished gift; the mother ran to the rescue, but not till the pin attached to the brooch was first bent, then broken. "What shall I do with these children," said the mother. Provoked by the injury to her much valued brooch, my aunt replied, hastily: "I know what I would do, I would whip them till they'd learn to keep their hands off what they've no business with." But when she saw how grieved the woman seemed to be, she felt sorry she had spoken so hastily. My aunt said it seemed as though night would never come, when I was to drive over to take her home, for there was not, she said, a minute's peace in the house during the whole afternoon, and glad enough was she to return at night to her own quiet home. It was a severe trial to one of my aunt's orderly habits, to be daily subjected to the visits of the noisy mischievous children of her cousin, and although she bore it with more patience than might have been expected, it was a serious annoyance. More than all, she dreaded the eldest son Ephraim. From the first there had existed a kind of feud between them. The boy was quick to notice the love of order so observable in my aunt, and took a malicious pleasure in studying up ways and means to annoy her in this respect. Articles of daily use were misplaced, and many an accident occurred in the household which could be traced in an indirect way to Ephraim; but the fellow was shrewd as well as mischievous, and took good care that not a scrap of direct evidence could be brought against him.

His father was for a time to assist Uncle Nathan upon the farm; and under pretence of performing some of the lighter work Ephraim usually came to the farm with him, but it was very little work which his father or any one else got out of him; but it seemed an understood thing that Cousin Silas and his family were to be borne with, and they endeavored to bear the infliction with as good a grace as possible. My aunt was put out of all patience, by finding one day, upon going to the clothes' yard to hang out her weekly washing, the clothes-lines cut in pieces and scattered about the yard. She knew at once that this was some of Ephraim's handiwork, and when the men came home to dinner she taxed him with the crime in no very gentle tones. As usual he declared himself innocent, even saying that he did not know there was a line in the yard. Then, as if a sudden thought had struck his mind, he said with the most innocent manner imaginable, "I just now remember that when we went out from breakfast this morning, I saw Tom Green coming out of the yard with a jack-knife in his hand, and it must have been him who cut up the lines." This was rather too glaring a lie, and Ephraim must have forgotten for the moment that Tom Green had been absent from home for several days; and cunning as he was, for once he had, as the saying is, "overshot his mark." "Silas Stinson," said my aunt, "will you allow that boy to sit there and tell such lies in your hearing?" His father saw that there was no help for it, he must at any rate make a show of authority; and looking at his hopeful son with a very solemn countenance, he addressed him in the language of Scripture, saying "O! Ephraim what shall I do unto thee?" "It wouldn't take me long to find out what to do, if he was mine," said Aunt Lucinda. "I'd take a good birch rod, and give him such a tanning, that he wouldn't cut up another clothes-line in a hurry, I'll promise you." "Upon the whole I think your counsel is wise, Cousin Lucinda," replied his father, "for the wisest man of whom we have any account says, 'Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him,' and the same wise man adds in another place: 'He that spares the rod spoils the child.'" I know not whether he acted from a sense of duty, or to appease the anger of my aunt; but, for the first time in his life, I believe he did use the rod upon his son Ephraim. He provided himself with a switch, the size of which satisfied even Aunt Lucinda, and, taking him to the back-kitchen, if we could judge by the screams which issued from thence, the whipping he bestowed upon Ephraim was no trifling affair.

Autumn again came, with its many-hued glories, and I must bid adieu to the uncle and aunt who had been so kind to me for the two past years. Looking forward two years seem a long period; but, as memory recalled the evening of my first arrival at Uncle Nathan's, I could hardly believe that two years had since then glided away. I had bid my kind teacher and his family good-bye, and in the morning was to set out on my homeward journey. I accompanied my uncle and aunt to grandma's grave—a handsome head-stone of white marble had been erected, and I enjoyed a melancholy pleasure in reading over and over again the sculptured letters, stating her name and age, with the date of her death. Eighty-five years, thought I, as my eye rested upon the figures indicating her age, what a long, long life! and yet she often said that, in looking back over her long life, it only seemed like a short troubled dream; but it is all past now, and she rests in peace. We sat long at the grave and talked of the loved one, now sleeping beneath that grassy mound; till the deepening twilight hastened our departure. I could not check the tears which coursed freely down my cheeks when I turned away from the grave. Seated around the fireside that evening we talked of the coming morrow when I was to leave them for an indefinite time, and they both spoke of how doubly lonely the house would seem when I should be gone. It hardly seemed to me that the aunt I was leaving was the same I had found there, so softened and kind had she become. "It's not my way," said she, "to make many words; you have been a good, obedient boy Walter, and I am sorry, that you must leave us, but we could not expect to keep you always. Always do as you have done here, and you will get along, go where you will; always look upon this house as a home, and if you ever stand in need of a friend remember you have an Aunt Lucinda, who, if she does fret and scold sometimes, has learned to love you very dearly, and that is all I am going to say about it." It was well that she had no wish to say more, for her voice grew tremulous before she had finished; and these few words more than repaid me for the endeavours I had made to please her during my stay with them. "My boy," said Uncle Nathan, "you are now leaving us. I am not going to spoil you, by giving you money, for if you wish to ruin a boy there is no surer way than by giving him plenty of money; and I want to make a man of you, and have you learn to depend on yourself and save your money: so at present I only intend giving you enough money to bear the expenses of your journey home, and buy any clothing you may require before going to a situation; but I have deposited a sum of money, to remain on interest for six years; if your life is spared, you will then be twenty-one years of age, and if you make good use of your time, may save something yourself. I will not say how large a sum I have deposited, but at any rate it will help you along a little, if you should wish to go into business for yourself at that time; and now you had best go to bed and sleep soundly, for you must be up bright and early in the morning."

The good-byes were all said, and I was seated in the train which was to convey me from Fulton. As the train passed out of the village I rose from my seat to obtain a last look at the Academy whose white walls shone through the trees which surrounded it. I suppose if the Widow Green had been there she would at once have said I would never see the Academy again, it being a saying of hers, "that to watch a place out of sight was a sure sign we would never behold it again." I certainly tested her saying upon this occasion, for I gazed upon the dear old Academy till it faded in the distance from my sight, and since then I have both seen and entered it. When my mother met me at the depot at Elmwood, I could hardly believe the tall girl who accompanied her was my sister, Flora, so much had she grown during the past year. I did not expect to meet Charley Gray, as the holidays were all over long ago, but the good Doctor and his wife were kind and friendly, indeed they had ever been so to me. "Charley went away in the sulks because you failed to come home during the holidays," said the Doctor with a good-humoured laugh, "but a fit of the sulks is no very uncommon thing for him;" and then he added, while a grave expression rested for a moment upon his face, "poor Charley I hope he will get rid of that unhappy temper of his as he grows older, if not it will destroy his happiness for life." "I am sure," replied I, "that Charley could not have been more anxious about it than I was myself, but I could not leave Uncle Nathan till the fall." "So I told him," said the Doctor, "but would you believe it, the fellow for a while persisted in saying, you knew he was at home, and so stayed away purposely, till he finally became ashamed of himself and owned that he did not really think so, and only said it because he was provoked by your not coming home; you see he is the same unreasonable Charley that he ever was, but it is to be hoped he will in time, become wiser."

I was glad to find myself again at home; much as I might love another place, Elmwood was my home. My favorite tree in the garden looked doubly beautiful, clothed as it was with deep green, while the foliage had long since been stripped from those surrounding it by the frosts and winds of November.

About two weeks after my return home, Dr. Gray called one evening, and informed my mother that he had that day received a letter from an old friend of his, who was a merchant doing an extensive business in the city of Montreal, requesting him, if possible, to find him a good trusty boy, whom he wished to give a situation in his store. "Mr. Baynard prefers a boy from the country," said the Doctor, "as he has had some rather unpleasant experiences with city boys; and it occurred to me that you might be willing your son should give the place a trial. I wish not to influence you too much: but I know Mr. Baynard well; and if I wished a situation for my own son I know of no place which would please me better." "Did my circumstances allow of it," said my mother, "I would gladly keep my boy at home, but, as it is necessary for him to seek employment, perhaps no better situation will offer, and as you, in whose opinion I have much confidence, speak so highly of Mr. Baynard, if Walter is willing we will at once accept of the offer, and you may write to your friend, accepting the situation for my son." Of course I had no objection to offer, and the Doctor wrote, informing Mr. Baynard that I would be there in two weeks time.

The time passed quickly away, and I again left home. The Doctor had written to my employer informing him on what day he might expect my arrival. The train reached the city about two o'clock in the afternoon, and, stepping from the car I became one among the crowd upon the platform. During the journey I had many times wondered to myself whether Mr. Baynard would meet me himself or send some one else. I supposed he would send one of his clerks. Dr. Gray had arranged that I was to board in Mr. Baynard's family, as my mother objected to my going to a public boarding-house, and in this, as in all cases the good Doctor was our friend; old as I am now I cannot recall Dr. Gray's many acts of kindness to me when a boy without a feeling of the deepest gratitude.

To a boy of fifteen, whose life has mostly been passed in a quiet country village, the first sight of the city of Montreal is somewhat imposing. Presently I noticed a gentleman who appeared to be looking for some one, and I felt sure it was Mr. Baynard. He appeared to be about forty years of age and during the whole course of my life I have never seen a more agreeable countenance than he possessed. I felt attracted toward him at once. I stood still watching his movements, as with some difficulty he made his way through the crowd, and soon his quick eye rested upon me; approaching and laying his hand on my shoulder, he said "Is your name Walter Harland, my boy? My name is Mr. Baynard, and I drove round by the depot to meet a boy I was expecting to arrive on this train." "My name is Walter Harland," I replied, "and I am the boy of whom Dr. Gray wrote to you." He shook hands with me, speaking a few kind and encouraging words at the same time. After giving orders concerning my trunk, he told me to follow him, and we soon reached his carriage, and telling me to jump in he drove to a beautiful residence, sufficiently distant from the business centre of the city to render it pleasant and agreeable. Mr. Baynard's family consisted of his wife, two daughters and one little boy. They all treated me with much kindness, and seemed anxious that I should feel at home with them. I arrived at Montreal on Thursday, and Mr. Baynard said I had best not begin my regular duties in the store till the following Monday. I shall long remember the first Sabbath I spent in the city, for on that day I suffered severely from an attack of home-sickness. Mr. Baynard's eldest daughter, Carrie was twelve years old, her sister Maria was ten, and their little brother Augustus was only seven years old. In the morning I attended church with the family, and a very lonely feeling came over, as I looked around over the large congregation and among them all could not discover one familiar countenance. The most lonely portion of the day was the afternoon; we did not attend church, and feeling myself as a stranger in the family I spent most of the time in my own room, and naturally enough my thoughts turned to my far distant friends, and I must confess that, although a boy of fifteen, I shed some very bitter tears that lonely Sabbath afternoon. In the evening I again attended church, and after our return spent the remainder of the evening in reading, and so passed my first Sabbath in the city of Montreal. I rose the next morning determined to be hopeful and look upon the bright side.

Before I took my place in the store, Mr. Baynard requested me to accompany him to the library, where he passed much of his leisure time, and he talked to me kindly and earnestly, informing me what would be expected of me, and giving me instructions regarding the duties of my position. "Many years ago," said he, "I came to this city a poor boy like yourself, as assistant clerk in a large store, I was even younger than you, and less fortunate in one respect, for my employer did not give me a home in his family, and I was obliged to take my chance in a large boarding-house which was not the best place in the world for a young and inexperienced boy; but thanks to the good principles taught me by my parents, I was preserved pure and upright amid many temptations to evil. My friend informs me that you have been well taught by your mother and the knowledge that you are left fatherless interests me in your favour; and, more than this, I am much pleased with your appearance, and I trust you will never forfeit the good opinion I have formed of you at first sight. I wish not to multiply advices to a needless extent, and will only add, be diligent in your business, be honest and upright in all things, and, above all things, shun evil companions, and you will surely be prospered in all your undertakings." This advice was given in the kindest manner possible, and from my heart I thanked Mr. Baynard for the interest he manifested in me. When I entered upon my regular duties in the store, I found them light, but I was kept very busy. My first task in the morning was to sweep, dust and open the store; through the day I assisted the older clerks in waiting upon customers, carried parcels, in fact, made myself generally useful. When released from the store the remaining portion of my evenings were pleasantly passed in the family of my employer; he was very unwilling I should acquire the habit of spending my evenings abroad, and was at much pains that the evenings in his own family should be pleasant. The little boy seemed to regard me, when out of the store, as his own property. I was fond of the child, and devised many plans for his childish amusement; his lively prattle often drove away the lonely feelings which at times stole over me, when I remembered my distant friends. The little girls both played the piano, which was a source of much enjoyment to me; we had access to the library where there were books suited to all ages. Mrs. Baynard allowed us occasionally to indulge in a noisy game, when our numbers were increased by some of their schoolmates. I well remember the feeling of wounded pride and anger when I one evening chanced to hear a purse-proud gentleman say to Mr. Baynard, "I am much surprised that you should allow your children to associate with one of your clerks; I could not for a moment think of allowing mine to do such a thing." "I do not ask you to allow your children to associate with him," replied Mr. Baynard, with a heightened colour, "but as long as Walter remains the honest, upright youth he has so far proved himself, I consider him a very desirable companion for my children. I have learned his character and connections from my old and esteemed friend Dr. Gray, and his testimony is sufficient for me." This reply silenced, if it failed to convince the proud gentleman.