Again the mother was in the presence of the angel-maiden, to whose loving arms a good God had confided the babe, which, in his wisdom, he had removed from the earth.  And the angel-maiden, as she looked first at the babe in her arms and then at the mother, smiled sweetly and said—­

“He is safe here; will you not let him remain?”

And, with a gushing heart, the mother answered, “Not for worlds would I take him with me into the outer life of nature.  Oh, no!  He is safe—­let him remain.”

“And you will return to those who still need your love and care?”

“Yes, yes,” said the mother, earnestly.  “Let me go to them again.  Let me be their angel on earth.”

And she bent hastily to the heaven-born babe, kissing it with tearful fondness.

There came now another change.  The mother was back again in her chamber of sorrow; and undried tears were yet upon her cheeks.  But she was comforted and reconciled to the great affliction which had been sent for good from heaven.

Those who saw Mrs. Freeland in the first wild grief that followed the loss of her babe, wondered at her serene composure when she came again among them.  And they wondered long, for she spoke not of this Vision of Consolation.  It was too sacred a thing to be revealed, to any save the companion of her life.

THE STEP-MOTHER.

There are few positions in social life of greater trial and responsibility than that of a step-mother; and it too rarely happens that the woman who assumes this position, is fitted for the right discharge of its duties.  In far too many cases, the widower is accepted as a husband because he has a home, or a position to offer, while the children are considered as a drawback in the bargain.  But it sometimes happens, that a true woman, from genuine affection, unites herself with a widower, and does it with a loving regard for his children, and with the purpose in her mind of being to them, as far as in her power lies, a wise and tender mother.

Such a woman was Agnes Green.  She was in her thirty-second year when Mr. Edward Arnold, a widower with four children, asked her to become his wife.  At twenty-two, Agnes had loved as only a true woman can love.  But the object of that love proved himself unworthy, and she turned away from him.  None knew how deep the heart-trial through which she passed—­none knew how intensely she suffered.  In part, her pale face and sobered brow witnessed, but only in part; for many said she was cold, and some even used the word heartless, when they spoke of her.  From early womanhood a beautiful ideal of manly excellence had filled her mind; and with this ideal she had invested one who proved false to the high character.  At once the green things of her heart withered and for a long time its surface was a barren waste.  But the woman was yet strong in her.  She must love something.  So she