Perhaps he, who hobbles slowly and sadly along upon his crutches, treads with care and unknown joy, the narrow way,—­and when, life’s journey’s over, he walks through the valley of the shadow of death, he will fear no evil; for a rod and a staff unknown to his earthly pilgrimage, they will comfort him.  Who shall say but he, whose deformity drives him from the public way, walks continually before God and Angels—­a perfect man?  It may be, that yon helpless one—­so helpless that his mother feeds him—­has power to move the arm that moves the world; for God hears prayer.

It is a most solemn truth that He who is the judge of quick and dead, looks not upon the outer man; but upon his inner, spiritual nature.  With His judgment, it matters not, that a man be deformed; that his eyes be blind or his tongue be tied:  is the heart all right?—­has it become a sanctuary, meet for the spirit’s residence and lighted by the Sun of Righteousness, where every word, thought, and deed, becomes an acceptable sacrifice to God? is it not disturbed by sin or blinded by passion?  These are the things which have to do in the estimate which God puts upon every intelligent creature.  Take good care then, my brother pilgrim, that the heart is all right—­though the body which covers it for a little season is distorted and maimed.

THE DEAD CHILD.

  “Though our tears fell fast and faster,
    Yet we would not call her back;
  We are glad her feet no longer
    Tread life’s rough and thorny track. 
  We are glad our Heavenly Father
    Took her while her heart was pure;
  We are glad He did not leave her,
    All life’s troubles to endure. 
  We are glad—­and yet the tear-drop
    Falleth, for, alas! we know
  That our fireside will be lonely,
    We shall miss our darling so!”

HOW beautiful a young child in its shroud!  Calm and heavenly looks the white face on which the blighting breath of sin never rested.

The silken curls parted from the marble brow—­the once bright eyes closed—­once red lips pale—­little hands that have ofttimes been clasped as the lips repeated “Our Father,” now meekly folded over the throbless heart, tell us that Death, cruel, relentless Death, has been there.

Surely, the soul that once beamed from those closed eyes is happy!  Hath not the Saviour said, “Of such is the kingdom of heaven?” Robed like an angel is she now, a lamb in the Saviour’s bosom.  Could parental love ask more?  Surely not.  Cleansed from all earthly taint; secure from all trouble, care, or sin, those eyes will no more weep; but the tiny hands will sweep a golden harp, and the childish voice will be heard making music in heaven.

Often, O, how often had our hearts said, “God bless her!” And has not our prayer been answered?  The yearnings of love cannot be stifled; for we miss the loving clasp of white arms—­the soft pressure of fresh lips—­the prattle and smile that were music and light to our world-weary hearts; our hand moves in vain for a resting-place on the golden head; yet we feel, we know that “it is well with the child,” for we see how much of woe she has escaped; how much of bliss she has gained; a home with the sinless; the companionship of angels for ETERNITY.  Blessed one!