cottages in Scotland, bed-Its worm-eaten Within this sepulchral

a large wooden box, dusky and dingy, which I conjectured, from its resemblance to the furniture of some other might possibly be a door stood half open. piece of wood, which looked like a coffin unearthed, I discovered, sitting in a most uncomfortable posture, her limbs folded beneath her, a miserable old woman, her body swelled and bloated with disease. A body more miserable I had never seen: I instantly breathed a prayer for her soul; and as I had but a moment to remain, without any other introduction, I began immediately to say, "Can you read the Bible?-What hope, have you of salvation? What do you think of Christ?—

To this strange address the impotent woman returned no answer; for my questions had followed each other too rapidly, to admit of any reply. But when I paused, she raised her eyes to heaven, and said, with an expression, I shall never-never forget.

"What think I of Christ?-Oh! if I might touch but the hem of his garment!-I should be made whole!'

Her words thrilled through my heart.

"What think I of Christ?' she again re

peated with the same deep and rapt emotion; 'I hope in his mercy-I wait for his salvation!"

I took her swollen hand between both of mine the pressure with which she returned my grasp, entered into my very soul!

After a moment or two, in which we both wiped our eyes, I said to her, "How old art thou?" to which she replied in language that seemed familiar to her as her native tongue, "Threescore years and ten.? Thirty years had she been in that wooden box. She had never breathed the breath of summer-never felt upon her pallid cheek its morning or its evening breeze-its dewy fragrance, or its balmy freshness. For thirty years she had never seen the sun in the heavens, nor the moon walking in her brightness, nor the stars giving their light. She turned toward the dusky casement, as she said, speaking of the light of the sun, he looks in here, early in the morning; but the shadow falls across that spot, pointing to the end of the hovel, by such an hour of the day. Alas! said she, for thirty years I have lived without the sweeter light of divine ordinances; and till I saw this

* Fact.

dear child, looking with delight upon Lily, I was eight years without hearing the voice of praise or prayer, except when these walls sent back the echo of my own supplications. But this child and her eyes, dim before, filled with light and love as she spoke-but this child has been as a ministering spirit, sent forth to minister to me!-My kinsfolks have failed, and my familiar friends have forgotten me-but she hath comforted me, and I am comforted --She hath been eyes to the blind. The word of God now meets my ear at morning, and at evening, and sometimes even at noon day.-I drink it in, as the earth drinketh up the rain. -There is now one human being to whom I can say, help me to praise Him,-one human being now hath pity upon her whom the hand of the Lord hath touched.-O my God! she exclaimed--wretched and loathsome as I am, one human being-even loves me!—

As she uttered these words, Lily sprang upon the bed, and threw her arms round her neck. The aged saint pressed her to her heart, her grey head sunk on the girl's shoulder-she sobbed like an infant, while the child, as she called her, kissed a hundred times her wrinkled forehead.

It was a luxury of feeling too high to be

long sustained. I withdrew to the open air, and dropping on the thymy sod, with bended knee gave thanks unto the Lord of lords, who had not despised the low estate of his handmaid, but had put it into the heart of this dear Sabbath scholar to visit the childless widow in her affliction, with all her young affections warm about her, to cheer her aged heart,—to lie, as it were, like the prophet's lamb, in her bosom, and to be unto her in filial tenderness and veneration,-kind, gentle, and dutiful as a daugh

ter.

CONCLUSION.

"What can I say more?"-Much more, my dear children-I could indeed say much more but as I know too long a book would tire you I shall here conclude.

But perhaps you will be anxious to know what is become of my dear old woman. I can only tell you, that she is still alive, and that five long years have been added to her threescore and ten; so that she has now been thirty-five years upon her bed of languishing.The Lord make all her bed in her sickness!

I have never seen her again. When I came to town, I sent her a new Bible, of a large, clear type; and as she thought she could read a little, even in her own tattered Testament, with the aid of my glasses, I got another pair for myself, and made her a present of mine. În the blank leaf of her bible, I wrote her name, Izbel Malcolm, and fain would I have coupled with it mine own; but I resisted by a strong effort the temptation, and in its stead, wrote underneath a beautiful hymn intended as a memorial of our conversation, at our first and last-indeed our only interview. Here it is need I say that I wish you to learn it by heart!

THE HYMN THAT WAS WRITTEN ON
THE BLANK LEAF OF IZBEL

MALCOLM'S BIBLE.

"What think ye of Christ? is the test
To try both your state, and your scheme;
You cannot be right in the rest,
Unless you think rightly of him.
As Jesus appears in our view,
As he is beloved or not;

So God is disposed to you,

And mercy or wrath are your lot.