The Christian's Death. "To die is ga'n.”—Phil. i, 21. AY, what is death, to those here joined To Christ by living faith? ("Who liveth and believes in Me Shall never die," He saith.) (John xi. 26.) 'Tis putting off this mortal frame, 'Tis parting, for a season, from To meet them in that land above 'Tis passing from all sorrow here, (John xvi. 22.) 'Tis giving up our Sabbath-days 'Tis only closing, here, our eyes, For we shall love our Saviour there, 'Tis joy which never can be told! (2 Cor. v. 1-4.) Setting out for Heaven. A SIMPLE STORY. 阿 CHAPTER I. IN a certain village in France was a small house, standing by itself in a pretty garden. This house had some time been inhabited by a widow lady and her two children. The lady was known as a pious, sincere, and earnest Christian; and she was very kind, to the extent of her power, to her poor neighbours. But for many weeks her health had visibly failed; and at last she was missed in her accustomed daily walks. In the room in which our story commences such silence reigned that the tick-tick of the little clock on the wall could be distinctly heard. The last rays of the setting sun made their way through the half-opened windows, and, lighting up one object after another, seemed as if reluctant to take their departure. The room bore no signs of luxury, nor yet of poverty, but rather gave the impression of moderate comfort. The furniture was simple; in one corner was a little recess, before which hung muslin curtains, and in it stood a book-shelf surmounted by a small white marble bust; in the opposite corner was a bed. From this bed a painful cough sounded, and then a feeble voice called, "Mary, my little Mary!" "Shall I fetch her?" asked a young maid who was seated at the head of the bed, sewing; "she is in the garden," she added. "Yes, Caroline, do," the voice answered. Caroline left the room, and returned in a minute or two afterwards with a little girl about six years old. The child had a slight, delicate figure, but just now her cheeks were flushed with exercise. As Mary entered the room her eyes sparkled with joy, for they fell on something that she loved far more than play. Going up to her mother, she put her two arms round her neck, saying, "Look, mamma, I have made you a nosegay-they are only little flowers, but I have so enjoyed picking them for you;" and she placed the nosegay on the bed. "Thank you, my dear child," replied her mother; and she folded her daughter closely in her arms, as if she feared she was going to be taken from her. She seemed as if about to say more, but, feeling herself too weak, fell back, and, joining her hands, murmured, "Oh! I cannot." "What cannot you do, dear mamma ?" asked Mary. "Tell me what it is, and I will do it. Do you want a glass. of water for the flowers? I will go and fetch one." But her mother did not answer. Feeble and exhausted, she pressed her hands against her heart, as if to restrain its pulsations, while tears rolled slowly down her thin, sunken cheeks. "Mamma, you are crying!" exclaimed Mary, anxiously, while with her little hands she gently tried to dry her mother's tears. "Are you angry with me, mamma?" she added, as her mother still kept silence, and then she began to cry too. "No, my child; but come and lay your head close to mamma. I have something to say to you." Mary drew near, half pleased and half frightened. It was long since she had been allowed to lie on her mother's bed. Her mother put her arms around her. "Do you remember, Mary," said the mother, "how sad you were when I went away to take care of dear papa, who had fallen ill far away from us? I came back again, but without papa. You know he is gone to heaven; and now, my child, I am going too." "Oh! mamma, will you not take me with you? Oh! please take me with you.” 66 "My dear child, I cannot; you must stay here with Johnny. Promise me that you will always stay with him; he has only you in the whole world; you must take care of him, and love him very much. Promise me this." The mother stretched out her hand, and Mary placed her own in it. "Yes, I will; I will always dress him and take care of him. But, mamma, can't you really take us both with you?" 66 No, Mary, I am going to take a long journey," said Mrs. Werner; for this was the name of the dying woman. But, mamma, where are you going, then ?" asked Mary. "To heaven, my child." 66 "But why cannot you take us with you-Johnny and me ?" 66 Mary, it is only those whom God calls that can go to heaven; any one else could not enter there. He has called me; and soon He will come and fetch me." Mary was silent and thoughtful. "Mamma, shall you stay there long?" Suddenly she said, "A very long time, my child. I shall never come back again." "And you are going to leave me alone, quite alone here?" again asked Mary; and her little face was so contorted with intense grief that, had her poor mother caught sight of it, the calmness she maintained with such effort would have vanished at once. Happily, she saw nothing of it, and was able to reply, in a firm, tender voice: |