“This, then, is the meaning of our strange wandering in the woods all day, Father,” said I.  “You were being providentially led from the path and guided to the bedside of this poor girl, that she might not die without the consolations of religion.”

“I cannot but believe so,” he replied, gravely.  “We missionaries witness strange things sometimes.  And what wonder?  Is not the mercy of God as great, the intercession of Mary as powerful, as ever?  To me this incident is but another beautiful example of the efficacy of prayer.”

Before long Father Friday was again summoned within, and thus all night he watched and prayed beside the resigned little sufferer, whose life was slipping so fast away.  In the grey of the early morning she died.

“Mussy me, I feel like I’d lost one of my own!” sobbed Mirandy.

“Yes, it’s cur’ous how fond of her we grew; though she jest lay there so uncomplainin’, an’ never took much notice of nothin’,” said Josh, drawing his brawny arm across his eyes.

An hour later he led the way before Father Friday and myself, and conducted us to the bridle-path, which joined the turnpike several miles below the town.  By noon we were safely at home.

Two days after, however, I again accompanied Father Friday to the forest, when, with blessing, the little wanderer was laid to rest among the pines.  One thing he had vainly tried to discover.  Though during that night her mind had been otherwise clear and collected, memory had utterly failed upon one point:  she could not remember her name.  As we knew none to put upon the rude cross which we placed to mark her grave, Father Friday traced on the rough wood, with paint made by Josh from burnt vine twigs, the simple inscription:  “A Child of Mary.”

HANGING MAY-BASKETS.

I.

“I am so glad May-day is coming!” exclaimed Ellen Moore.  “What sport we shall have hanging May-baskets!”

“What do you mean?” inquired Frances, who lived in Pennsylvania, but had come to New England to visit her cousins.

“Never heard of May-baskets?” continued Ellen, in astonishment.  “Do you not celebrate the 1st of May in Ridgeville?”

“Of course.  Sometimes we go picking wild flowers; and at St. Agnes’ Academy, where I go to school, they always have a lovely procession in honor of the Blessed Virgin.”

“We have one too, in the church,” replied Ellen; “but hanging May-baskets is another thing altogether—­”

“That is where the fun and frolic come in,” interrupted Joe, looking up from the miniature boat which he was whittling out with his jackknife.