“My hour has come, Alfred,” he said, placing one hand upon the beloved head bowed before him, “and I go hence with thankfulness.  Ah! even now, there is a heavenly content in my bosom.  The angels are bending over me, and wait to take my spirit to its home:  there is no mist before my sight, all is clear.  The Father of love lifts up my soul in this hour—­our parting will be short, my son—­” the old man’s voice trembled, an infinite tenderness dwelt in his eyes, and Alfred felt that there was a reality in the peace of the dying one.  All the good that he had done him rushed before him, and he exclaimed with humility,

“How can I ever repay you, dear grandfather! for all your noble lessons to me?”

“I am repaid,” was (sic) the the low reply; “they have brought forth fruit, and I have lived to see it.  I trust that you will leave the world with all the peace that I do, and with deeper goodness in your spirit.  My blessing be upon you, my son!”

“Amen!” came low from Alfred’s fervent lips.

The eyes of the aged one closed in death, and his young disciple went forth again into the world, made better by the scene he had witnessed.

A HYMN OF PRAISE.

  I BLESS Thee for the sunshine on the hills,
    For Heaven’s own dewdrops in the vales below,
  For rain, the parent cloud alike distils,
    On the fond bridegroom’s joy—­the mourner’s woe! 
  And for the viewless wind, that gently blows
    Where’er it listeth, over field and flood,
  Whence coming, whither going, no man knows,
    Yet moved in secret at Thy will, Oh, God! 
  E’en now it lifts a ring of shining hair
    From off the brow close to my bosom pressed—­
  The loving angels scarce have brows more fair
    Than this, that looks so peaceful in its rest:—­
  We bless Thee, Father, for our darling child,
  Oh, like Thine angels make her, innocent and mild!

  I rise and bless Thee, for the morning hours;
    Refreshed and gladdened by a timely rest,
  When thoughts like bees, rove out among the flowers,
    Still gathering honey where they find the best: 
  And for the gentle influence of the night,
    Oh, Heavenly Father! do we bend the knee,
  That shuts the curtains of our mortal sight,
    Yet leaves the mind, with range and vision free,
  For dreams! the solemn, weird, and strange that come
    And bear the soul to an elysian clime,—­
  Unveiling splendours of that better home,
    Where angels minister to sons of time! 
  For all Thy blessings that with sleep descend,
  Our hearts shall praise Thee, God, our Father and our Friend!

AN ANGEL IN EVERY HOUSE.