In these, too often, the unwelcome child is ushered into being, the fruit of a prostitution more base than any which is called by that name, because sanctioned and shielded by a covenant of holiness.  If any children are illegitimate such are.  If any mothers are to be condemned, they are those, who, vain and foolish, filled with worldly ambition, angrily regret that their time is encroached upon by the demands of their dependent offspring.  In vain the little ones reach out for the life and love which should be freely given them; then, finding it not, fade and die like untimely flowers.  Thousands of innocent beings go to the grave every year from no other cause than this, that though born in wedlock they are the offspring of passion, and not the children of love.

Sad as these thoughts are, they are nevertheless true.  An hour’s walk in any community, will bring to any one’s observation inharmonious children.  Let the married reflect, and closely question themselves, in order that they may know the true relation which they bear to the children who are called by their name.  Better by far that a child of pure love be brought into the world, with a heart to love it, a hand to lead it, and a soul to guide it, than a child of passion, to be hated and forsaken by those who should care for and protect it.

Little can be done by one generation to right this wrong, but that little should be done with earnestness.

“I will not forsake it,” said Margaret, looking into the eyes of her child; eyes that fastened on hers such a questioning gaze, that it made her heart beat fast, and the scalding tears flow down her cheeks; eyes that resembled those that once flashed on her the light of passion, which she mistook for that of pure affection.

Years rolled on, and she struggled with life, trying to support herself and child by her efforts.  But, alas, the taint was on her; none would help her to a better existence, and she fell to rise no more this side the grave.

Not suddenly did she surrender her womanhood, but slowly, as hope after hope failed, and all her efforts were met with a foul distrust.

The years that came and went by, bringing happiness to many, brought none to her.  One night the angel of death stole noiselessly to her side, and took her only earthly comfort,—­her child.  His fair face and innocent smile had repaid her a hundred fold for the frowns of the world she had met.  Now she had no moorings, no anchor in the broad sea of existence.

“I shall die some day,” she said, “and perhaps the angels will forgive me.”  So she walked alone, and cared not what came to her life, or filled the measure of her days on earth.

Miss Evans sat alone in her home, musing, as she had often done.  She had just been reading passages from “Dream Life,” having opened the book at random to a chapter entitled, “A Broken Hope.”  Was life mocking her at every step?  She turned the pages listlessly, and “Peace” flashed before her vision.  Peace, at last.  No matter how great the struggle, rest shall be ours.  We may not attain what we have striven for on earth, but peace will come, and the “rest which the world knows not of.”