There were times, however, when the mother’s heart would almost overcome this resolve.  In her lonely hours fancy would portray her son’s future; and when does maternal hope discover aught but a glorious one?  She thought of what he might be, could he go abroad to study the works of the old masters; how, with his genius (for she knew not that taste was often mistaken for genius) and persevering industry, her boy might yet win a high place in the world, as many others as poor as he had done.  But she was too sensible to let her thoughts dwell long on this flattering subject, and resolved to do what she considered right as present duty, committing the issue to God, in whom she so implicitly trusted.

Christmas-day came round again, and it was a mournful one in the home of the widow and fatherless.  Margaret had changed much during the year:  her face was deathly pale, silver lines showed themselves among her dark hair, and her usually placid and subdued expression was exchanged for a look of pain.  A harassing cough troubled her by day and prevented her resting at night; an accompanying weakness created some little anxiety as to what its issue might be; but, with the hoping spirit which is ever attendant on that insidious disease called consumption, she believed that the coming spring would restore her.

It came with its wealth of sunshine, and renovated the earth to promise of fruitfulness and beauty,—­beautiful type of the resurrection, when man shall rise to glorious immortality.  All nature rejoiced in its presence; the flowers came forth and filled the air with healthful odours; the birds warbled as they built their nests; the merry children rejoiced as they played on the green, and exulted in the liberty the vernal season bestowed.  But to the widow spring brought no renewal of health; and now, finding herself unable to wash, she consulted a physician, who told her it was too late; the disease had made large progress, and she could not live through the year!

Such an announcement would startle most persons.  Death is so repugnant to man’s nature, that there are but few who do not shrink from the dread encounter.  Poor Margaret had more to fear than this.  She dreaded not only the misery and poverty her tedious illness would entail upon them, but she wept the bitterest tears when she thought of her orphan child, poor, alone, and uncared for, when she should be taken away.  She was, however, too sincere a believer to remain long within the shadow of the cloud.  The God in whom she had ever trusted was ever faithful to his own word.  Had he not promised, “Leave thy fatherless children to me, I will preserve them alive?” and is not his favour better than life!  And when she prayed, “Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me,” like Him whose true servant she was, she also added, “nevertheless, not my will be done, but thine.”  When does the Christian fail to receive comfort, when the child-like submission inculcated in the gospel