it into their heads." "And who keeps the Sunday-school for these little Irish children from the shanties on the rail-road ?" "Emma Maxwell. Who but she would take the trouble, when their folks did not care one straw whether they were taught or not?"

And so you might go on for an hour, and find that Emma Maxwell did good deeds that others, for want of thought, (and perhaps faith,) rather than time or heart, do not do.

There are persons in this world who would almost seem to be deprived of the natural relations of parents, brothers, sisters, husband and children, that they may do little odd jobs for the human family left undone by the regular labourers. Emma Maxwell was one of these, God's missionaries to his children. Emma was an orphan she lived at her uncle's, where, though she paid her board, she rendered many services that lightened the burden of life to every member of the family. Perhaps some of my young readers would like to know how Miss Emma Maxwell looked. She was tall, and not very slender; for she took good care of her health, and had the reward of her care in strength and cheerfulness, and the sign of it in the bright bloom of her cheek. She had a soft blue eye, and one of the sweetest mouths I ever saw, How could it be otherwise? for never any but kind words and soft tones came from it. And she had-do not be shocked, my gentle reader-red hair. Depend upon it, all young ladies, be they good and lovely, and even pretty, (and pretty Emma undeniably was,) do not have, except in books, "auburn hair," or "flaxen,' or even "rich brown." Emma's hair was so plainly and neatly arranged, that no one noticed it except to say that "somehow, red hair did not look badly on Emma Maxwell." The light that comes from within can make every thing without look agreeable in our eyes. Many wondered why Emma Maxwell, who, at the date of our story, was full four-and-twenty, was not married, and she "so attractive and so excellent."

The mothers said, knowingly, "the right one" had not asked her, and the young girls, with all their horrors of an old maid, almost hoped that "the right one" never would ask her away from Mill-hill.

Emma had escaped that worst evil, sometimes the consequence of the early loss of friends, a diminution of her affections. Hers were "set on things above." Her

heart went out to meet every human being gently and silently, like the falling of the dews of Heaven. There was no bustle, no talk. By her fruit she was known. She often resembled those flowers that, unseen, give out sweet odours; her kindness was enjoyed, and its source never known.

When the new railroad that runs near Mill-hill, was to be made, the neighbourhood was alarmed. They dreaded the Irish, whom they regarded as savages; and when Emma Maxwell said, at the meeting of the " ladies' sewing society" on Saturday afternoon, "I do not think we shall have any trouble from them, if we only treat them right," the good women replied, they "guessed Emma would find herself mistaken for once." Emma, however, maintained her own opinion. She had always courage, and hope, when good was to be done.

The very next day after the sewing meeting, late on Sunday afternoon, Emma was sitting alone on a favourite shady seat near the brook, when four men, carrying the coffin of a child, and followed by a woman with an old cloak wrapped around her, head and all, and leading a little girl, passed her. The child was crying aloud. Emma's eye followed them. They entered the buryingground, where two of their friends who had obtained leave to bury their dead there, had dug the grave, and awaited them. The last office was soon done, and the men went their way. The woman lingered with the child, who threw herself down on the fresh sods, and seemed not to hear her, though she commanded and entreated by turns. "Come away," she said, "what's the use, honey? if ye cry the salt ocean ye can't bring her back. Ye must just come, for Mike will be after wanting his supper. Lord help the child! she'll fret the soul out of her!" Emma rose, and, approaching the fence, leaned against it near the new grave. "Lave me here wi' Jady just a bit!"" said the child, imploringly. "Let her stay-please," said Emma, " and I will see her safe home. You live, I suppose, in one of the shanties by the rail-road ?" "Yes, bless ye, miss," replied the woman, turning suddenly at the sweet sound of Emma's voice, and then drawing near to her, she added, "keep your eye upon her, miss; I fears she'll be after digging down to Judy, they were as if they grew together, poor things, and no wonder, they, the last of their people. Mike, that same is my husband, miss. Anny and I are only

Mill-hill.

ship-acquaintance, but we'll not send her out upon the wide world, though the Lord, blessed be his name! has given us enough of our own. Anny, honey, when ye've done fretting, come home-what's gone is gone."

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With this poor and common comfort, after dropping a courtesy to Emma, she took her way home; and Anny, believing herself alone, turned her face to the sods, and cried bitterly. Oh, Judy, Judy," she groaned, "I cannot live without ye. Why can't I be quiet in here? If I were with ye, I would content me I would-I would; but I am all alone; father in the deep sea, and mammy, and Bobby, and you, Judy, buried up in the ground, and I never to see you more-Never, never, never!"

So Emma sat down by the little girl, and put her arm over her. "You will see them all again, my child," she said; "the grave will give up its dead."

Anny looked up. She fixed her eye earnestly on her, stranger as she was. Emma's compassionate voice had reached her heart. "The grave give back the dead !” she exclaimed; then she laid down her head again, crying, "No, no; they that die never come back againnever-never!"

"But my child, have you never read in the Bible that they that die shall live again?"

"Miss ?"

"God tells us so by his word written in the Bible." Anny did not answer; she did not seem to hear; head was again down on the sods, and she was crying, her and calling on Judy. "Oh! don't you hear me? oh, spake to me-spake one word-say but Anny! and I'll be quiet-I will-quiet as you are, Judy! Oh, she can't hear me !"

"There is One that hears and will answer you, my poor child, if she cannot."

"No, no, none of them hears. I have called them all, day and night; I cry, and none of them answers; no, not mammy, that always heard when the life was in her."

Your Father in heaven, God, hears and pities you, my child."

"No, no, he does not hear me. Did not I cry to him? did not I beg him to leave me just only Judy? forgive me I can't help it-and did he not take her from God me just the like of the others?"

"But, my child, you must remember God's ways are not as our ways." Anny did not understand Emma Maxwell, but she felt that she pitied her, and she looked earnestly at her. "I say, my child, God's ways are not as our ways," she repeated, "he chasteneth whom he loveth." Still Anny did not understand. She had never heard the Bible read and explained, as the favoured children of our Sunday-schools hear it every week, and its language conveyed no idea to her mind. Emma might as well have spoken to her in Greek. She spoke plainer; "You know there is a God?"

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They say there is, miss.”

"You believe that he is good??

Anny shook her head. "If," she replied, "he had been so very good, would he have taken them all away; father, and mother, and poor little Bobby, and last of all, Judy?"

"But my child if you were sure it was for Judy's good to die now; if you were sure it was for the happiness of your parents and little Bobby that they were taken away from you, if you were sure I say, then would you not feel that God was good?"

"I can't say, miss," replied Anny, rising up on her knees, and resting her arms on Emma's lap.

"If you could see that by their deaths you were to be made better and happier, then would you not feel that God is good?"

Happier! happier! that can't be, Miss."

"Oh my child, ever since the world was made, people have felt that it was good for them to be afflicted. There are hard hearts that are never softened till God sends death and takes away something that is dear to them; there are hearts that are never softened till they feel death coming upon themselves."

"That's true! that's true! for old O'Leary it was that begged forgiveness of my poor father and motherGod rest them!-when he was dying, and gave us back the money for the cow he had seized for the rent. Yes, sure, God is good when he sends death to take off the wicked people like O'Leary."

"And when he takes the good away from all the troubles of this world, Anny. God has made us to live for ever. The time that we live in this world is but just the beginning of our lives. This is all we see, and we act as if this were all. Your friends are living, Anny, just as much as they were when you could see them.

The soul cannot die. It is only the body that dies; that is put down as we put off our clothes when we go to bed; but that part of you which thinks and feels, which loves, which remembers your parents, and hopes to meet them again, that part cannot die. We put the body in the ground, and we love to come to the place where it is laid, because it was in this body that the soul lived when we knew it; and we are told in the Bible that this body shall be raised up again."

"Then, sure, I shall see them again?

"Surely you will; and all, I hope, will be happy together." Anny looked for a few moments more tranquil, and she laid her head on Emma's lap confidingly, as if she had known her all her life. But she soon heaved a deep sigh, and said, "How can they come alive out of the ground again ?”

"How? that I can't tell you, Anny; but he who created us can certainly make us live again. Did you never read the story of Lazarus ?"

"I cannot read."

"Did you ever hear that Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead ?"

"Sure, and Father Burke must have told me ; but I don't mind any thing now but them that's gone."

"But do not you sometimes think of Jesus, our Lord and Saviour ?"

"That would I" she replied, taking from her bosom a crucifix, and kissing it, and faltering and blushing; for, though Anny was very ignorant, her conscience reproached her for forgetting everything but her losses. Indeed, miss,' she added, "I have been so heart-full of trouble."

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He who sent the troubles, my poor child, sent them as messengers to you, to tell you of his power and his love, and to draw you near to him."

"Miss?" said Anny, not at all understanding words that, to an instructed child, would have seemed very plain.

"I will tell you the story of Lazarus, Anny; and, when you hear of the power and the love of God shown at his grave, you will feel more willing to trust your friends, though dead to you, to that power and love.

"There is a place called Bethany, about two miles from Jerusalem, the city of the Jews. When Jesus was on earth, there lived in this Bethany a family of three