To these questions we reply, that God does not interrupt the ordinary course of His works.  Man is a free agent in so far as regards his own actions; were it otherwise, we should not be responsible for our own crimes.  We might as well plunge into vice as adhere to virtue; for we could not be called upon to expiate the one, nor could we hope to be rewarded for the other.  It is not to be expected that God is to perform miracles at every instant for our individual benefit.  It is unreasonable in us to suppose that, in obedience to our wishes or desires, He will alter His immutable laws.

A foot slips on the brink of a precipice, and we are dashed to atoms.  Our boat is upset in a squall, and we are drowned.  Like Stanislaus Leszinsky, King of Poland, we fall asleep in the corner of a chimney, our clothes take fire, and we are burned to death.  We go a hunting; we mistake a grey overcoat for the fur of a deer, and we kill our friend or his gamekeeper, as once happened to the son of Louis XV., who in consequence almost died of grief, and renounced forever a sport of which he was passionately fond.  Did Providence will, exact, or pre-ordain all these calamities?  Certainly not; but our Creator has seen fit to tolerate and permit them, since he did not interpose to prevent them.

The government of God is a conception so wonderful, so sublime, that none but Himself can fathom its depths.  Human intelligence is too finite to penetrate or comprehend a system so complex, and yet so uniform.  The mind of man can only form a just idea of a cause when the effect has been made manifest to his understanding.  There might have been a reason for the death of Mary Wolston—­who knows?  But if it were so, that reason was beyond the pale of mortal ken.

Let us not, however, anticipate.  Mary Wolston is not yet dead.  On the contrary, when the ninth day of her illness had passed, Fritz and Jack were returning from an expedition, the nature of which was only known to themselves, but which, to judge from the packs that they bore on their backs, had been tolerably productive.  The two young men observed their mother advancing, as usual, to meet them, but this time she ran.  They had no need to be told in words that Mary Wolston was now out of danger; the serenity of their mother’s countenance was more eloquent than the most elaborate discourse that ever stirred human souls.

Mrs. Becker herself felt that words were superfluous, so she quietly took her son’s arm, and they walked gently homewards, whilst Jack strode on before.  On turning a corner of the road, the latter stumbled upon Wolston and Ernest, who, in the exuberance of their joy, had also come out to meet the hunters.  They were, however, a little behind; but that was nothing new.  These two members of the colony had become quite remarkable for procrastination and absence of mind.  When Wolston the mechanician, and Ernest the philosopher, travelled in company, it was rare