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cautious movements any longer, but in spite of all his entreaties and admonitions, kept striking out on either side, endeavouring to find some path. "we're

"Bide, bide!" at last Joe cried out loudly;

close upon Gully-pot, and it's as much as yere life's worth to gang heedlessly! Lord have mercy upon us! Stop, lads!"

An oath was the return, and the young man sprang forward. There was a strange hollow sound, as of a stone falling to some great depth-one cry for help, and then total silence.

"God help us!" Joe ejaculated, solemnly; "he's fallen in, and none ever came out again thence!"

His next movement was to seize tightly hold of the other young man, Mr. Vaughan, who was rushing wildly to aid his companion in some way; but Joe's grasp was strong, and prevailed.

"Ye can do nowt," he said; "he's in, and as I said, nae livin' thing ever fell in there and comed out again to tell its tale. Young man, ye maun wait till t'mist clears or we can do owt-wait-and pray, if ye never have prayed before."

Mr. Vaughan seemed paralysed with horror; he was a slight, delicate man, too, and the chilling mist, which soaked him through and through, began to tell upon him. He now thoroughly realized the danger of their position, and the awful disappearance of his companion added to his terror. He now submitted like a child to Joe, who made him lie down under a rock, and bid him not stir, while he shouted and hallooed loudly to the missing youth, though without a hope of being answered. There was no reply; and except the howling wind which was rising, all was still.

That was an awful night. Young Vaughan was too utterly prostrate with cold and misery to speak, but he lay listening to Joe's occasional ejaculations and prayers, trying to join with them as he had never done since he was a little child, and first learnt to pray.

At last morning came, and the mist, though not

cleared, was lessened. By this time Mr. Vaughan was too entirely exhausted to move, but Joe, after trying to make him understand his intentions, set off to return to the village to fetch help. Though old, he was still active, and sooner than he would have thought possible himself, he was again on the mountain side, accompanied by several men, who found Mr. Vaughan lying insensible from cold and exhaustion. They would have at once carried him back to Kirkbeck, without making any search after his friend, considering him hopelessly lost; but this Joe would not allow. He insisted on such search as could be made at the mouth of the terrible Gully-pot being forthwith made, and all the men began to examine it carefully. It was Joe himself, however, who espied a speck as of a protruding finger under a ledge of rock some twenty-five feet down the abyss, and he eagerly asked who would descend and try to bring up the body, which he had no doubt was there.

No one offered himself, for it had always been considered too perilous a place to descend. Then, after a brief moment, and a consultation with one of the men, the old man himself was seen slowly descending by a rope, hardly expecting to get down to the ledge, and yet resolved to try.

It was a heart-stirring thing to hear him in after days describe the descent-his silent prayers to God for aid -his thoughts of little Lucy and her desolation if he perished-his arrival on the ledge-his finding young Childers lying there as he anticipated-the difficulty with which, after various attempts, they drew him to the top, and Staveley's own return, and the strange procession back to the village, along the same track where the two young men had passed so differently the day before. Joe never wearied of telling the tale-not seeming to think, however, that he deserved any praise in it at all, but giving the glory to God

alone.

To the astonishment of every one, the young man

was found to be yet living, though in a most precarious condition; as indeed was his friend, whose feeble frame had hardly suffered less from the cold and

exposure.

For many weeks both lay at the inn, almost hovering between life and death; and there was no one so watchful over them, or so good a nurse, as Joe, who, better accustomed to rough weather, was soon restored to his usual vigour.

But God was pleased to restore both the young men, and to bless to them that fearful night; for years after they both owned that their first serious impression of life's uncertainty, and the awfulness of appearing unprepared before God, had been indelibly stamped upon them by that means. They have frequently been since to visit Joe, who is now a very old and infirm man, not far from the grave, and who speaks of both as if they were almost his own children. He still lives in his tiny old house, with his little Lucy, who is still "Little Lucy" in name and in fact; nor do I know what the villagers, or any of us will do when Joe is gone; for none assuredly can take his place among us.

THE LOST DAY.

MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

LOST! lost! lost!

A gem of countless price,
Cut from the living rock,
And graved in paradise:

Set round with three times eight
Large diamonds, clear and bright,
And each with sixty smaller ones,
All changeful as the light.

Lost-where the thoughtless throng
In Fashion's mazes wind,
Where trilleth Folly's song,
Leaving a sting behind:
Yet to my hand 'twas given
A golden harp to buy,

Such as the white-robed choir attune
To deathless minstrelsy.

Lost lost! lost!

I feel all search is vain; That gem of countless cost Can ne'er be mine again : I offer no reward

For till these heart-strings sever, I know that Heaven-entrusted gift Is reft away for ever.

But when the sea and land

Like burning scroll have fled,
I'll see it in His hand

Who judgeth quick and dead,
And when of scathe and loss
That man can ne'er repair,
The dread inquiry meets my soul,
What shall it answer there?

THE PRESENCE OF GOD.

AMELIA B. WELBY.

O, THOU who flingst so fair a robe
Of clouds around the hills untrod―
Those mountain-pillars of the globe
Whose peaks sustain thy throne, O GOD!
All glittering round the sunset skies,
Their fleecy wings are lightly furl'd,

As if to shade from mortal eyes
The glories of yon upper world;

There, while the evening star upholds
In one bright spot, their purple folds,
My spirit lifts its silent prayer,
For Thou, O GOD of love, art there.

The summer-flowers, the fair, the sweet
Up-springing freely from the sod,
In whose soft looks we seem to meet
At every step, thy smiles, O God!
The humblest soul their sweetness shares,
They bloom in palace-hall, or cot,-
Give me, O LORD, a heart like theirs,
Contented with my lowly lot;
Within their pure, ambrosial bells
In odours sweet thy spirit dwells.
Their breath may seem to scent the air-
'Tis thine, O GOD! for Thou art there.

Hark! from yon casement, low and dim, What sounds are these that fill the breeze? It is the peasant's evening hymn

Arrests the fisher on the seas;
The old man leans his silver hairs
Upon his light suspended oar,
Until those soft, delicious airs

Have died like ripples on the shore.
Why do his eyes in softness roll?
What melts the manhood from his soul?
His heart is fill'd with peace and prayer,
For Thou, O GOD, art with him there.

The birds among the summer blooms

Pour forth to Thee their hymns of love,
When, trembling on uplifted plumes,
They leave the earth and soar above;
We hear their sweet, familiar airs
Where'er a sunny spot is found:
How lovely is a life like theirs,
Diffusing sweetness all around!

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