I hope that you, my dear boys, will never have cause to know what a heavy heart I bore back to my desolate home that night.  The vessel got out to sea about 4 o’clock on Monday, and last night the natives returned, bringing a letter from Mr. Ranney.  Your precious papa has revived again—­spoke aloud—­took a little tea and toast—­said there was something animating in the touch of the sea breeze, and directed Mr. Ranney to write to me that he had a strong belief it was the will of God to restore him again to health.  I feel somewhat encouraged, but dare not hope too much.

And now, my dear boys, it will be three, perhaps four long months before we can hear from our beloved one again, and we shall all be very anxious.  All we can do is to commit him to the care of our heavenly Father, and, if we never see him again in this world, pray that we may be prepared to meet him in heaven

* * * * *

Your most affectionate mother,

Emily C. Judson

PRAYER FOR DEAR PAPA.

Poor and needy little children,
Saviour, God, we come to Thee,
For our hearts are full of sorrow,
And no other hope have we. 
Out, upon the restless ocean,
There is one we dearly love,—­
Fold him in thine arms of pity,
Spread thy guardian wings above.

    When the winds are howling round him,
      When the angry waves are high,
    When black, heavy, midnight shadows,
      On his trackless pathway lie,
    Guide and guard him, blessed Saviour,
      Bid the hurrying tempests stay;
    Plant thy foot upon the waters. 
      Send thy smile to light his way.

    When he lies, all pale, and suffering,
      Stretched upon his narrow bed,
    With no loving face bent o’er him,
      No soft hand about his head,
    O, let kind and pitying angels,
      Their bright forms around him bow;
    Let them kiss his heavy eyelids,
      Let them fan his fevered brow.

    Poor and needy little children,
      Still we raise our cry to Thee
    We have nestled in his bosom,
      We have sported on his knee;
    Dearly, dearly do we love him,
     —­We, who on his breast have lain—­
    Pity now our desolation! 
      Bring him back to us again!

    If it please thee, Heavenly Father,
      We would see him come once more,
    With his olden step of vigor,
      With the love-lit smile he wore;
    But if we must tread Life’s valley,
      Orphaned, guideless, and alone,
    Let us lose not, ’mid the shadows,
      His dear footprints to thy Throne.

  Maulmain, April, 1850.

    SWEET MOTHER.

    The wild, south-west Monsoon has risen,
      With broad, gray wings of gloom,
    While here, from out my dreary prison,
      I look, as from a tomb—­Alas! 
      My heart another tomb.