found, and they reported to the mistress their failure to find her.

"No matter," she replied, "so long as she is no longer among us. Go to your labors now, keep the house very quiet, and be sure, before dark, to lock all the doors, that she may not enter unperceived."

They need not have bolted nor barred her out; for her work was done, and she had no cause to return.

She was sent to the house of wealth to carry the blight of death. Her mission was over, and she was on her way, seeking Joy.

The young girl faded slowly and died.

The mother mourned without hope, and was soon laid beside her daughter. The home passed into the hands of those who felt that none must live for themselves alone; that sorrows must be borne without murmur; and joys appreciated so well that the angel of sorrow may not have to bear some treasure away to uplift the heart and give the vision a higher range.

Sorrow met Joy on the road that night. There was no moon, even the stars were dim; but for the shining face of her sister, she would have passed her. They joined hands, and walked together till morning broke. They came in sight of a low cottage just as the day dawned.

"Oh, dear!" said Sorrow, as they approached the familiar spot, "how often have I been there to carry woe! Do you go now, Joy, and give them gladness!"

"If it is the master's hour I will most gladly," said Joy, looking tenderly on the weary face of her sister, who sat by the roadside to rest awhile while she lifted her heart to heaven, asking that she might no more carry woe to that humble home; and her prayer was answered.

"I feel to go there," said Joy, as Sorrow wiped her tears away. "Wait here till I return;" and she ran merrily on.

She entered the humble home with gladness in her beaming eyes, and, as she bore no resemblance to her sister, they welcomed her with much greeting; nor did they know but for Sorrow, Joy would not have been among them. She talked with them a long time, and listened patiently to the story of their woes.

Sickness, death, and adversity had been their part for many years.

"But they are passing away," said Joy, confidently, "and health and prosperity shall yet be among you."

"We shall know their full value," whispered a voice from the corner of the room which Joy's eyes had not penetrated. On a low cot lay an invalid, helpless and blind.

The tears fell from her own eyes an instant, and then sparkled with a greater brilliancy than before, as she said, "And this, too, shall pass away."

The closed eyes, from which all light had been shut out for seven long years, now slowly opened; the palsied limbs relaxed; life leaped through the veins once more; and she arose from her bed, while the household gathered round her.

A son, who was supposed to have been lost at sea, after an absence of many years returned at that moment, laden with gold and other treasures far greater, than the glittering ore,—lessons of life, which, through suffering, he had wrought into his mind.

Joy departed, amid their tumult of rejoicing, and joined her sister.

The happy family did not miss her for a time; yet when their great and sudden happiness subsided into realization they sought her, but in vain.

They needed her not; for the essence of her life was with them, while she was walking over the earth, carrying pleasure and happiness to thousands; yet doing the work of her father no more than her worn and sad-eyed sister.

VII.

UPWARD.

There was once an aged man who owned and lived in a large house the height of which was three stories. His only child was a daughter, of whom he was very fond, and who listened generally to his words of counsel and instruction; but no amount of persuasion could induce her to ascend to the highest story of their dwelling, where her father spent many hours in watching the varied landscape which it overlooked. It was an alloyed pleasure as he sat there evening after evening alone, looking at the lovely cloud tints, and rivers winding like veins of silver through the meadows. It detracted from his joy to know that the view from the lower window offered naught but trees thickly set and dry hedges.

"Come up, child," he called, morning and evening, year after year, with the same result. It seemed of no avail. "She will die and never know what beauties lie around her dwelling," he said, as he sat looking at the wealth of beauty. It seemed to him that the clouds were never so brilliant, nor the trees and meadows so strangely gilded by the sun's rays, as on that evening. He longed more than ever to share with his child the pleasure he experienced, and resolved upon a plan by which he hoped to attain his wish.

"I will have workmen shut out the light of all the stories below with thick boards, and bar the door that she may not escape. I will give her a harmless drink to-night that will deepen her slumbers while the work is being done; for by these seemingly harsh means alone can I induce my child to ascend."

That night, while she slumbered, the work was done, and she awoke not at the sound of the hammer on the nails. When all was completed, the father ascended to await the rays of morning, and listen for the voice of his child, which soon broke in suppliant tones upon his ears:—

"Father! my father! It's dark! I cannot see!"

"Come up, my child!" still he cried. "Come to me, and behold new glories."

She gave no answer; but he heard her weeping, and groped his way below to lead her up. She no longer resisted. Her steps, though slow, were willing ones: they were upward now, and the father cared not how slow, so long as they were ascending.

Many times she wished to go back, but he urged her on with gentle words and a strong, sustaining arm, till the last landing was reached, and the light, now streaming through the open windows, made words no longer needful. With a bound she sprang to the open casement, exclaiming, "Father, dear father!" and fell, weeping, on his breast.

His wish was granted; his effort was over, and his child could now behold the beauties which had so long thrilled his own soul.

Thus does our Heavenly Father call us upward; and when he sees that we will not leave the common view for grander scenes, and will not listen to his voice, however beseeching, he makes all dark and drear below, that we may be led to ascend higher, where the day-beams are longer, the view more extended, and the air more rarified and pure.

VIII.

THE OAK.

An old and experienced gardener had been watching a tree for many days, whose branches and foliage did not seem to repay him for his care. "I see," he said, a little sadly; "the roots are not striking deep enough: they must have a firmer hold in the earth, and only the wind and the fierce blast will do it."

It was now sunset, and the faithful gardener put away his tools, closed the garden gates, and went into his cottage. Soon a mass of dark clouds began to gather on the horizon. "I am sorry to use such harsh means," he said, waving his hand in the direction of the wind clouds; "but the tree needs to be more firmly rooted, and naught but a violent wind will aid it."

A low, moaning sound went through the air, shaking every bush and tree to its foundation.

"Oh, dear!" sighed the tree. "Oh, the cruel gardener, to send this wind! It will surely uproot me!"

The tree readied forth its branches like arms for help, and implored the gardener to come and save it from the fearful blasts. The flowers at its feet bowed their heads, while the winds wafted their fragrance over the struggling, tempest-tost tree.

"They do not moan, as I do. They cannot be suffering as I am," said the tree, catching its breath at every word.

"They do not need the tempest. The rain and the dew are all they want," said a vine, which had been running many years over an