Ah! there are steps-another group is approaching | and with joy. Reverenced and loved, he has gone the awaiting "holy man of God." A woman comes, bearing in her arms a child for baptism. The font containing the regenerating waters is there in readiness.. Troops of invisible angels are nigh to listen to and make record of the solemn vows now to be made, and the spirit of the living God is there also, a witness, merciful in his omnipotence.

There are but few who accompany the womanshe comes in no pomp and state to dedicate her child to God in baptism; neither is the offering she brings adorned with the pride of wealth. The mother is poor-the child an heir of poverty. But will He therefore spurn the gift? "He that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out."

The father of the child, the husband of the mother is dead-and her widow's weeds but "faintly tell the sorrow of her heart." Therefore it is with so much the more trustful confidence she has come with her child to the altar, she will give him into the watchful care of the Almighty Father of the fatherless! With what a solemn earnest voice she takes upon herself, for the child, the vow of renouncement of the world and its sinful desires; and when the sign of the cross is laid upon the brow of her infant, and the holy waters which typify its regeneration are poured upon his head, it is with heartfelt gratitude she lifts her heart to heaven, with heartfelt confidence she implores his watchful love and care. And all the while on the uncovered head of the child the glance of the sunlight has rested, as if in token of the acceptance of the offering the mother has made, in token that the blessing and mercy of God would be upon that child for whom a holy vow was registered in heaven, which he must one day redeem, or else pay the fearful penalty.

down to the grave-no, I must not say that, he has gone upward to rest on the bosom of his Father! In boyhood he was wild, and fearless, and recklesshis manhood, generous and upright, nobly redeemed his early days-and happy, and peaceful, and honorable, was his "green old age." And now he has "gone to his reward"-his race well run, his labor all fulfilled, it seems strange that any should weep. They have laid back the coffin-lid that the assembled people may once more look on their venerated friend. Oh, how peacefully he sleeps, and lovingly, as on the unconscious infant, the Sunlight, that messenger of consolation, looks upon the calm, cold face, and the mourner's grief is stayed as they behold the brightness which once more illuminates those lifeless features.

Upon the infant, dedicated to God in the days when he lies helplessly at the portal of life, on the maiden and the youth, entering on a state of existence, either supremely blessed or supremely cursed in its eventuation, and on the dead old man, whose race so long, and of mingled pleasure and hardship, is over at last; on these the faithful Sunlight has pronounced her blessing within the walls of the old church. But now all the human beings have gone away, the minister with the funeral train to the burial, and the sexton has fastened the church-doors and gone too; but still the Sunlight remains, and it seems as though she were kneeling before the altar now, craving God's blessing on all those who have this day stood within His courts, and before His altar, brought there by joy or sorrow to rejoice or to weep.

Not, however, within the sanctity of walls alone does the Sunlight make herself visible. Through byways, and in the open street, where the stream of life goes rushing on violently, does she tread, brightening up by her presence dark and dismal corners, and enlivening the gloomiest and dreariest places.

In the intervening places between the high brick dwellings and stores she stations herself; there, like a priestess, she stands to pronounce a benediction on all who pass by her. On the blind old beggar, led by a little child, who pause a moment to rest in the sunshiny place, for they have walked on wearily amid a heartless crowd, that had but little feeling for the poverty-stricken old man, whom Heaven deprived of sight; and on the gaudily decked form of the shameless woman, as a reproach and condemnation; on the proud, hard man, whose haughty head and iron heart care little for the Sunlight or for Sorrow, whose honorable name has safely borne him through the committal of sins and crimes, which, had he been poor and friendless, would have long ago secured for him a safe place among convicts and outlaws! Little recks he of Sunlight. A blessing so freely bestowed on all, as is her smile, is not what he covets; so through shade and light he hastens, and soon enough he will arrive at the bourne. What bourne?

And now the mother with her child and friends have left the church, and a sacred quiet reigns there once more; yet the priest lingers by the altar, still arrayed in his robes of office, and Sunlight also remains. And, hark! once more the "deep-toned bell" is ringing now-tolling mournfully-no wedding-peal of joy is that, from out the heart of the strong iron is rung the stern tale that another mortal hath put on immortality! Now they come, a long and silent train, and foremost move the bearers treading heavily; "it is a man they bear"—an aged man, the measure of whose cup of life was well filled, reaching even the brim; and following after them are the children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren of the deceased, and the procession is closed by his many friends and neighbors. Of all that lengthened train there is not one who set out on the path of life with the dead man. One by one his early companions passed away, there are none who retain a recollection of that aged face when it was smooth, and of those locks now so very white and thin, as they were in earlier years; not one who shared the hopes of his childhood with him-few who mingled with him in the scenes remembered now as of the old, old time. Yet the mourners weep, and the bells There go by the wandering minstrels, men from toll mournfully. Scotland with their bagpipes-Italians with hurdyThe old man has finished his course with honor gurdy-girls with tamborines, and boys with violins

THE

MISSIONARY,

SUNLIGHT.

241

and banjoes-there are professors of almost all kinds | where lies the brightness, I cannot say but the ineviof instrumental music, and vocal too, a great many table eye-glass might be raised, and such a glance of of them there are, but sure, almost all of them, of idiocy and impudence be directed toward the gentle winning coppers from some who would bribe them daughter of the mighty king, as would warrant her into a state of quietude, and from other some, har- in annihilating him at once with a powerful sunmony-loving souls, who delight in the dulcet sounds stroke! such minstrels ever awaken and give utterance to! And Sunlight blesses them!

Here comes another, a benevolent, but solemnfeatured, portly gentleman, who seems in musing

And here comes an humble, tired-looking woman-mood, for he goes slowly along with head bent down.

a school teacher she is, whose days are one continued round of wearying, and most monotonous action. You would scarcely err in your first guess as to her vocation-it speaks forth in her "dress a little faded," but so very neat, but more loudly still in that penetrating glance of her eye, and in the patient expression of her features. Though she is evidently hurried, for she has been proceeding at a most rapid pace along the streets, you could tell she has some appreciation of the glory of Sunlight, for how she lingers whenever she comes near the places enlivened by her presence! Her feet, too, press less heavily the pavement, perhaps she feels as though she were treading on sacred ground!

He is a judge, proceeding toward the scene of his trying duties, feeling the responsibility which rests upon him, and nerving himself to meet the solemn and affecting scenes and circumstances which may await him. Oh may it be that as he passes by those small illuminated places, that a stronger voice than he has ever heard before may find utterance in his heart, charging him to remember that the highest attributes of the Heavenly Judge are mercy and love, and that only as he employs them in his deci sions, can he justly imitate his Divine prototype!

And now there is another going by, whose disappointment is legibly written on his face. Either of two doleful things has happened to him. His prayers have been unheard by his "lady-love," and she looks coldly upon him, or-scarcely less to be dreaded climax-his first attempt at literature has met with

"faint heart never won fair lady," or honor in the

literary world;" let him take one intelligent look at the sweet Sunlight, as so patiently she stands there before him; and small will be the danger of his ultimate defeat.

Then, there comes another, a little, frail, youthful creature, with bright, black eyes, (which have obviously a quick recognization power for "every thing pretty,") a person of quick and nervous move-unqualified failure. Let him but bear in mind that ment, a seamstress. She has not time often to pause and take note of the beautiful. Her weeks have in their long train of hours only twelve of daylight she may call her own! She, too, steps slowly, almost reverently, over the flags where the princess is stationed, and with an irresistible sigh thinks of earlier and happier days, when a merry country child she rejoiced in her delightful freedom, though clad she was then in most unfashionable garments, and almost she regretted the day that sent her into the great, selfish city to fashion dresses for the rich and gay. Poor girl! before she has half passed over the shady place which succeeds the glimpse of Sunlight, she has forgotten the hope which for a moment found refuge in her breast, wild as it was, that one day she might indeed go into the country again, and find there a welcome and a home; for must not Miss Seraphina's and Miss Victoria's dresses be finished that very night in time for the grand party; and the flounces are not nearly trimmed, and numberless are the "finishing touches" yet to be executed.

Alas! before night comes again, when she will go alone, and in the darkness, through the noisy street, in her weariness and stupidity, (for continued labor, you know very well, reader, will make the brightest mind stupid and weak,) she will hurry to her bed, forgetful of her bright dream of the morning, unmindful of her prayers, in the haste to close her weak and tired eyes. But in the morning, perhaps, the Sunlight will give to the overworked girl another gleam of hope, another blessing.

And now goes by an interesting, white-gloved youth, fresh from "the bandbox," as you perceive. Let him pass on; for there is but little chance that Sunlight will be recognized by him, and so we will not waste our comments, for could he even see

But-but how fast the crowd increases-it is growing late, and between the increasing crowd of fashionables, and of people of all sorts and conditions, we are really in danger of being soon unable to distinguish who of all the host stop for the blessing of Sunlight, and who unmindful pass by her. And indeed it were an endless task to impose on one's self the attempt to speak, or even to think, of the myriads who in their hours of sorrow, despondency, tribulation or joy, have had occasion to be thankful for the cheerful smile of glorious Sunlight!

Her mission-ay, never was there one so blestand never was there so faithful a missionary! She comes with a message of love for the whole world! How perfectly she has learned that lesson taught her by our own, as well as her Almighty Father! How nobly has she obeyed his sublime precepts, how truly is she the joy-diffuser of the human race!

And now what remaineth to be said? But one thing only.

In a necessarily more contracted sphere of action may there not from our faces, and our hearts, go forth a beam of light that shall be poweful to cheer up a desponding spirit, or to encourage a drooping heart, or to give comfort to a sorrowing soul, or to increase the faith and courage of a lonely life?

Cannot the sunshine of a human face, in the dark forest of a sad heart, have power to make the old trees bud, and the birds to sing, and the violets to spring up and bloom, and the ice-bound streamlets to go free? From many a love-lit eye, from many a

Blessed forever be the sweet Sister of Charity, of God, and of man!

I AM coming, I am coming, when this fitful dream is o'er, | Across my path, so dreary now, that late was bright and
To meet you, my beloved ones, on that immortal shore,
Where pain and parting are unknown, and where the ran-

THE BROTHER'S TEMPTATION.

BY SYBIL SUTHERLAND.

CHAPTER I.

"You look sad to-night, Alice," was the remark of Mr. Colman as his young wife entered the sittingroom, and took a seat beside him with a countenance expressive of unusual dejection; "and where is Maggie this evening that you have been obliged to take upon yourself the duty of nursery-maid to our little ones?"

thus in a state of unconsciousness. He said that his limbs being palsied he was unable to help her, and so he had lain upon his couch agonized by the thought that his child was dead, or that she might die for want of proper assistance. And he now besought me to endeavor to discover if there were any signs of life, and if possible to restore her to her senses. The appeal was not in vain. I turned from him to his inanimate daughter, and raising that light and fragile form in my arms, placed her upon a couch in a small closet-like apartment adjoining the one I had first entered. For a long time every means of restoration were vainly tried—but at length my strenuous efforts were rewarded, and the young girl once more unclosed her eyes. But she evidently recognized nothing about her-those dark and strangely beautiful orbs glared wildly around, while a few broken, incoherent sentences burst from her lips, and as she sunk again upon the pillow the bright fever flushes rushed to her cheek, and I knew that her brain was suffering. Great was her parent's joy that she once more breathed-but my heart was full of sadness, for I could not help feeling that her life was in jeopardy. It was my wish to have a physician summoned, but I knew not how this was to be done, for I dared not leave my charge, and there was no one near to help me. At this moment I heard footsteps in the hall, and quickly opening the door, beheld a boy ascending the stairs. The promise of a piece of silver easily procured his assent to go for the nearest doctor, and accordingly he set off, while re-entering the room I resumed my station by the sick girl's bedside. In a few minutes the physician arrived and my suspicions of the nature of the young girl's disorder were confirmed, for he pronounced it to be a fever of the brain, and said that his patient would require constant watching and careful nursing. The father listened anxiously and attentively to the doctor's words. His countenance fell as he caught the last sentences, though he said not a word. It was not till after giving his prescription, the physician left, promising to call early on the morrow, that he spoke what was passing in his mind.

"Maggie has gone upon an errand of mercy-to watch over a sick and suffering fellow creature," replied Mrs. Colman. "It is a long story," she added, in answer to the look of inquiry which her husband cast upon her, "but I will endeavor to relate it if you will listen to it patiently. This morning, Harry, after you had left home, I resolved to set forth in search of a seamstress who was making some dresses for our little girl. She had failed to bring them home at the time appointed, and as I had never employed her before, and knew nothing of her character, I felt rather anxious concerning the safety of the materials I had given her to work upon, and determined to go to the dwelling which she had described as her residence and learn the cause of her disappointing me. The house was in a miserable street some distance from here, and I hurried along till I came to it. It was a wretched-looking dwelling, such as none but the very poorest class would have chosen. The door stood open, and several ragged little Irish children were playing upon he steps. I inquired of them if Mrs. Benson, the seamstress lived there? They did not seem to recognize the name-but they told me that a young woman who took in sewing hired the back rooms of the third-story. Following their direction, I ascended three flights of stairs and found myself at the door of the apartment, where I knocked, and a faint voice bidding me ent r, I unclosed the door and stood upon the threshold. What a strange and unexpected sight now met my gaze! Upon the floor, almost at my feet as I entered, lay a young and very beautiful girl apparently bereft of all consciousness. She looked so thin and pale that at first I thought her dead, and starting back in horror I was about to leave the place, when a feeble voice, the same which told me to come in, besought me to stay. Looking round to discover whence it proceeded, I saw the emaciated form of a man reclining upon a couch in a distant part of the room. Hastily I ap-ing for her the care she needs.' It was all that passed proached him, for I felt it to be my duty to render what aid I could. As I drew nearer to his bedside, I read the tale of confirmed disease in that pallid face and in the wild sunken eyes whose gaze met my own. In a few words he informed me that the maiden who lay there senseles was his daughter. While busily engaged at her work about an hour previously, she had fallen from her seat and remained

"Julie must die!' he said, bowing his head upon his hands, while bitter, hopeless anguish was depicted upon his face, 'for I have no means of obtain

his lips, but it spoke volumes to my heart, and my resolution was instantly taken. I told him that I would not desert his child, that I would continue with her part of the day, and when I was obliged to leave that I would send some one to take my place. Oh, Harry! if you could only have seen how grateful that poor invalid looked! Most amply repaid was I by that glance for whatever I had undertaken. I re

might supply my place as attendant upon the sick Julie, until evening, when I proposed to bear her company and resume my post at the bedside. She came, and her sympathies were soon all enlisted by the tale which I hurriedly repeated to her. But she decidedly opposed my wish to return-reminded me of my late indisposition, and declaring that I was not

skill as nurse without any other assistance. I thanked her for her consideration, while I felt that she was right. So I left her and proceeded home, where, as you may suppose, I was welcomed most joyfully by little Willie and his sister, who had mourned incessantly over mamma's protracted absence.

And now, Harry, that I have finished my somewhat lengthy narrative, tell me whether you approve of what I have done and promised to do?"

Certainly, dearest Alice," replied Mr. Colman, affectionately pressing the little hand that rested within his own, "while you continue to follow, as you have hitherto done, the dictates of your own pure, loving heart, I can never do aught but applaud you. The present objects of your benevolence, are I am sure from the account, well worthy of whatever you may do for them, and I would advise you to persevere in your efforts for their welfare. But you quite forgot to tell me, my dear, if you discovered in your protégé the seamstress for whom you were searching."

mained with the sick girl several hours longer, and in the intervals when she slumbered, I had time to observe the appearance of things around me. The furniture was mean and scanty. There were but two chairs in the room, and the carpet was worn almost threadbare. Every thing betokened extreme poverty --but neatness was plainly perceptible in the arrange ments of the apartment, and I felt from the appear-strong enough to bear the fatigue of sitting up all ance of its occupants that they had seen more pros-night, insisted upon being allowed to exercise her perous days. A book lay upon a table close at hand, I took it up, and discovered it to be a volume of Bryant's poems. On looking over the pages, I found several of the most beautiful passages marked. Upon one of the fly-leaves was writen, 'To Julie-from her father.' The book was evidently the young girl's property. There was also a small portfolio of drawings upon the table, which evinced signs of both talent and cultivation. For an hour after the physician's departure the parent of Julie-for by her name I may as well call her-showed little disposition to converse. He seemed exhausted by the emotions of the day-but I knew that though he said nothing, his gaze was often upon me when he imagined that I did not observe him. At last he roused himself to answer some inquiries which I thought it necessary to make. He told me that he was very poor, and that for more than a year, during which his infirmity had appeared and increased, his daughter had maintained him by the proceeds of her needle. He said also that two years previously he had resided at Baltimore as one of its wealthiest merchants-but having failed under circumstances that cast a cloud upon his character, though he was in reality innocent of intentional wrong, he had left the city of his birth and hastened with Julie, his only child, to New York, where he would be sure of never more meeting the scornful gaze of those who had been his friends ere misfortune overtook him. Here he hoped to procure employment-but fate seemed against him. Shortly after his arrival in this city, he was seized with a "And pray what may be the name of the family dangerous illness which left him in his present help-whose history has interested you so deeply?" asked less condition, and his lovely and accomplished child | Mr. Colman. found herself very unexpectedly thrown upon her own resources for her support and that of her invalid parent. Bravely for many months had she borne the burden, but continued anxiety concerning the means of obtaining life's necessaries had at last done its work-and in the delirium of fever, the fair and noble girl now tossed restlessly upon her bed, a mere wreck of what she had once been.

"This brief sketch of their history, as you may imagine, dear Harry, interested me greatly. And when, at its conclusion, the speaker again expressed his fears for the future and his doubts as to the recovery of his child, for whom he had no power to provide necessary attendance, I again assured him that I would watch over her until she became quite well, and that after this I would endeavor to find some more healthy and suitable employment for her than that in which she had latterly been engaged.

"Toward the close of the afternoon, being desirous of going home for a while, I dispatched the boy whom I have once before mentioned, for Maggie, that she

"No, indeed," she replied, while her countenance wore a look of vexation, "my seamstress was a very different sort of a being from this beautiful Julie. Nor do I think that I shall ever discover her, for just before I returned home I made in uiries as to whether a person answering her description lived in that house, and was assured that no one of that name had ever dwelt there. How foolish I was to trust those dresses to an entire stranger."

"The father's name is Malcolm-Walter Malcolm, as he informed me. With the daughter's I believe that I have already acquainted you."

"Walter Malcolm! Julie Malcolm! And you say they are from Baltimore?" As he spoke Mr. Colman's cheek grew suddenly pale, and rising from his seat he paced the apartment with a hasty and agitated step.

66

Why, what is the matter, Harry?" exclaimed his wife in a tone of the deepest solicitude, as she sprung to his side, "pray tell me what has moved you thus ?" But it was some moments ere he seemed able to reply. At length with emotion he said—

"Alice, what if I were to tell you that this manthis Walter Malcolm is my brother-the brother who in my early youth drove me away from his luxurious home, an orphan and unprotected, to seek my fortune in the wide, wide world?" Alice Colman started and raised her eyes wonderingly to her husband's face, and after a brief silence he resumed with a sternness unusual to him