womanhood seems better and purer to me since I have known you. And her life has been marred as well as mine. I shall count the hours until I may expect an answer from you,-perhaps none will come-perhaps-" Maude read to the end, and then laid aside the paper, and with wide open tearless eyes, turned to her desk and wrote: "My friend, need I say that I pity you? Ah! no; you must have known that I could not help pitying you for all the sorrow and suffering that one hour of weakness has brought upon you. And have you not atoned for it? God knows. How can I blame you, when I trust that He has long since forgiven you." Here Maude's tears fell so fast that she could scarcely see to write the concluding words "I feel grateful to you for your confidence, and shall follow you, with my thoughts, through all your wanderings. May God bless you, my friend Forever mine, my friend, From June to life's December; CHAPTER VII. In answer to Maude's letter came a grateful response from Mr. Lyndon, and later, a joint letter from Bertha, Mrs. Granton and Lyndon, begging Maude to come and make her home at the old place, during the absence of its master. Bertha declared that her happiness would be incomplete unless Maude were near her, and Mrs. Granton added her plea of illhealth and loneliness, while Mr. Lyndon supplemented these entreaties by telling Maude that he would not be satisfied to leave his estate in any other hands than hers, and that she would be doing him a great favor if she consented to come to Lyndon and act as steward, during his absence, with his faithful man, John, to execute her commands. Urged to accept these welcome proposals by her ever kind friend, Mrs. Bernard, Maude finally consented to the plan, to the great joy of her three friends. Five years have now passed away, years of quiet content to Mrs. Granton, of mingled joy and pain to Maude, and of great happiness to Bertha. It is a cool evening in June, one of those evenings that come so often during that lovely month, when we are glad to come in from out of doors, and gather around the lamp. Mrs. Granton and Maude are sitting in the library with the windows open, and books and papers on the table before them. "What are you working at so busily, my dear?" said the old lady. "A sacque for Bertha's little girl; my namesake must have a present," said Maude, smiling brightly, as she lifted up a delicate mass of pink and white wool, and laying it on the table, reached out her hand, saying, "shall I read the paper now?" "If you will, my dear, there is something about Matanzas. Was not Mr. Lyndon there when we heard from him last?" "Yes. This is an account of the cholera in Matanzas." "My poor Ralph!" exclaimed Mrs. Granton. "I hope he is not there." "He may not be," said Maude; "it is many months since you have heard from him. He has probably left Matanzas for some out of the way place. Do not worry, dear Mrs. Granton, this may be a false report, after all." Maude strove to comfort her old friend and allay her fears; while her own cheek was pale, and her heart filled with anxious forebodings. When Mrs. Granton's hour for retiring at last came, Maude bade her a cheerful good night, and then returning to her place by the table, read over the brief paragraph many times. She was disturbed by the entrance of a servant, who told her that a gentleman desired to see her. "A gentleman at this hour! How strange! I can see no one to-night; tell him that I am indisposed. John, come back, I wish to speak to poor Mrs. Granton, and I am anxious about your master; he was in Matanzas when we last heard from him, and the cholera is raging there. John, what is the matter with kind to her, and watched by her bed-side to the last. She was a better woman when she died, and blessed me with her kindness to her. It was only common humanity, for all deserted her in her extremity, and she might have died of want had I not been there." you? Why do you smile when I tell you that your master is in danger?" "Perhaps he left Matanzas before the cholera broke out," said John, still smil-latest breath, for what she called my ing. "He never used to stop long at one place when I was with him. What shall I tell the gentleman, Miss Maude? He looks as if he had come a good way." "John, it cannot be," said Maude, beginning to suspect something from the man's manner. "The gentleman is not-" Yes, he is," exclaimed Mr. Lyndon's voice, as he entered the room suddenly from the porch, and advanced toward Maude with both hands extended; while she, overcome by her sudden joy and surprise, sank down upon the sofa and covered her face with her hands. "Maude," said Lyndon, "will you not look up and let me see the face that has haunted me like a sweet dream through all the weary years of my exile?" Still Maude did not move, fearing to meet the passionate love that she knew burned in Lyndon's eyes, and which she felt would consume her scruples like stubble before the flame, and compel her, against her sense of right and duty, to say that she loved him. Why did he speak to her thus, she asked herself. Where was his fine sense of honor? How dare he touch her hands and strive to draw them from her face? Suddenly withdrawing her hands, and springing from her low seat, Maude stood before Lyndon in all her maidenly dignity, with innocence written on every line of her face, and just a touch of scorn on her lips, which melted into tenderness when her eyes met his, and he said: "Maude, I dare love I am free!" you; "Free?" she asked, as if the word conveyed no meaning to her mind. "How noble you are!" said Maude, raising her tearful eyes to his face, and drawing nearer to Lyndon; "and how brave not to fear the contagion! Do you know why I turned away from you, when you told me that your wife was dead?" "No." "It seemed so dreadful for us to rejoice over the death of any human creature, when it is the common lot of all, and our life is only a gift from God that we hold from day to day. Now I see it all differently. That was your burden, which you bore, O! so patiently, and now that it is removed it is right for us to be glad. How thankful I am that God gave you strength to do your duty! All the rest of our life will be happier." "Our life, Maude, do you really mean what you say? Look up, and tell me whether you can learn to love this old man, with more gray threads than black ones in his hair, and the weight of years of shame and sorrow on his head?" "I have learned already," said Maude, speaking more with her eyes than her lips conveyed, "and I love you better, since I know how noble you have been." you "But I am an old man, my child, and you are young and beautiful, more beautiful now than when I left you five years ago. Do know that I have stood in the shadow by the window, and watched you for an hour and more? I thought dear Mrs. Granton would never say goodnight, and I feared to startle her by my sudden appearance; and then I wished, of all things, to see you alone. I heard your expressions of anxiety about my safety, and saw your troubled face when you thought I was in danger. I came home to find you thinking of me, talking about me!" "Alas, for the vanity of man!" ex claimed Maude, laughing to keep from crying. "Do not jest; I am too serious for that, and will not even smile, until you answer my question. Will you take me, my child, and what is left of my life, and mould them into something worthy of your love, and worthy to give back to God when he asks me for them?" How thankfully Maude accepted this trust, both eyes and voice confessed. Their happiness was too great to keep all to themselves, she said, and seeing the lights still burning in Bertha's home, they went out into the darkness, which was not dark to them, and across the shadowy lawn, where the old maples and oaks seemed to be singing a hymn of rejoicing for their ears alone, to tell Bertha and her husband of the new joy born to them out of much sorrow and weariness. WITHIN THE VEIL. BY MRS. MARGARET E. SANGSTER. far THEY never seem to be fo have left my side! The loved and dear who A breath, that the sunlight shall lift one day, As the angel arms were about them thrown, I shall see them again, within the veil, When morn is fair in her silver mists, Or eve is dark with her shadows gray, I think how royal with amethysts, And pearl and gold is their shining day! And holier groweth each homely care That catcheth a gleam from the light of heaven! They are only gone where our Jesus is, They stand in His presence. O! perfect bliss, Why should they seem to be far away, To enter, and with them be satisfied! Only a step to the clear noon-day, Out of our darkness, that is all! Only a veil, that shall lift away, When, soft as a zephyr, His touch shall fall! AT A MISSIONARY'S PROPOSAL. Until this time the Christians of America had not discovered that their field was the world. It was the dawn of a new era, and in proportion to the grandeur of the results, as the ages come and go, will be the lustre that will encircle the names of the four young men who that day entered the Bradford church, to commence, in their modest way, the preaching of the crusade of the nineteenth century among the heathen. T Bradford, in Massachusetts, one | sions, other associations uniting with that summer day in the year 1810, of Massachusetts for the purpose. when the dignified clerical body then meeting in the Congregational Churchthe General Association of Massachusetts proper were in session, four young men entered the church unobtrusively. Few knew who they were, and why they came; and attracting little attention, they seated themselves, and waited patiently till such a time as they could gain an opportunity to present a written communication. This paper, which was in the handwriting of Mr. Judson, and signed, "Adoniram Judson, Jr., Samuel Nott, Jr., Samuel J. Mills, and Samuel Newell," modestly stated that the signers had been "long impressed with the duty and importance of personally attempting a mission to the heathen," and that, "after examining all the information which they can obtain, they consider themselves as devoted to this work for life, whenever God in his providence shall open the way." Then follow the inquiries, whether, with their present views and feelings. they ought to renounce the object of missions as visionary or impracticable; if not, when should they go; and could they find encouragement from a missionary society in this country, or must they commit themselves to the direction of some European society? The prime mover was Samuel J. Mills, yet it is evident that he could have accomplished little without his associates. Having come into the possession of an authenticated copy of a letter of Samuel Newell, written from India in 1817, to Miss Philomela Thurston, who acquiesced in the proposal contained in it, and became the second Mrs. Newell-a letter which we believe has never been printed— we lay it before our readers, prefacing it with some account of the writer. After Mr. Newell, who was a graduate of Harvard College, had finished his theoological course in Andover, Mass., and attended medical lectures in Philadelphia, he, with Rev. Messrs. Adoniram Judson, Samuel Nott, Gordon Hall, and Luther Rice, received instructions from the Board at Salem, Feb. 7th, 1812, and set sail for India. Messrs. Newell and Judson, and their wives, soon after their arrival in Calcutta, were ordered by the government, the East India Company, to return immediately to America; and it was decreed that the Caravan, the ship in which they had come, should not return without them. By this harsh treatment they were thrown into deep distress and perplexity. They and their Christian friends The Association met the request with in Calcutta carried their troubles to the the appointment of a special committee, Throne of Grace; and meanwhile the whose report, when received and adopted, authorities were plied with arguments resulted in the formation of the American and persuasives to induce them to mitiBoard of Commissioners for Foreign Mis-gate their order. Their prayers were Says Rev. John Keep, who was present, the statement " was heard with profound attention. It was a sound in the tops of the mulberry trees, and some of us held our breath." The purpose of the young men was known beforehand to a few members, however, two of whom, as they rode to the meeting at Bradford, had occupied themselves with devising a scheme of missionary support. heard, and the order was so far modified and a half they arrived at Bombay. On as to allow the missionaries to go whereso- the 26th of March, 1818, five weeks ever they chose, provided they removed afterwards, Miss Thurston was married themselves beyond the jurisdiction of the to Mr. Newell. East India Company. Messrs. Judson and Rice, soon after their arrival in Calcutta, became Baptists, and from that time their paths diverged from that of the Newells. Then followed for the latter a long and perilous passage to the Isle of France. An infant daughter, born on the way thither, they sorrowfully consigned to the sea, and soon after their arrival the mother sank rapidly with consumption. The career of this devoted young woman, ending with the lonely grave on the Isle of France, has been rendered familiar through Dr. Woods' Memoir, published by the American Sunday-school Union, a little work which in the past generation found its way to almost every Christian household in America. Though Harriet Newell's greatest sorrow, ere she died, was that she had been able to do so little for her God, and especially that she must leave the work before she could fairly enter upon it, her early death has undoubtedly contributed very largely towards the development of a missionary spirit in the land of her birth. At Ceylon, Mr. Newell prepared the way for the work of the American missionaries in that island, and he finally settled, with Messrs. Nott and Hall, at Bombay, where we find him in 1814 making progress in the acquisition of the Mahratta language, and engaging in evangelical labors. From this time the pages of the Missionary Herald seem somewhat like a continuation of the Acts of the Apostles, and such language as the following in reference to a school of five hundred children in Bombay in 1818, looks, in the light of more recent events, like fulfilled prophecy: "In these schools we seem to see a thousand Hindoo hands at work, from year to year, in undermining the fabric of Hindoo idolatry." In answer to the letter given below, Miss Philomela Thurston, in company with two missionaries and their wives, set sail from Charlestown, Mass., for India, and after a voyage of four months Mr. Newell died in May, 1821, of epidemic, spasmodic cholera, a disease which for four years had been sweeping over Hindostan, Farther India, and the Malay Islands. It is probable that he took the infection of the disease by visiting a number of sick and dying people at Tannah, the chief town of the island of Salsette, north of Bombay. When, after a sickness of but twelve hours, he had breathed his last, and Mrs. Newell, who, from a sick bed had risen and come into the room, heard one say, "He is now safe; all his sufferings are over," she exclaimed, "What! is he gone indeed?" and her friends, using gentle force to prevent the effects of so afflictive a scene, bore her unwillingly from the apartment. Up to the time of his death Mr. Newell had been in the habit of receiving every Sabbath, for religious instruction, a company of thirty or forty blind beggars. These men were always quiet and attentive, and at the close of the exercises they each received from the missionary a pice, (one cent.) Mr. Newell was in disposition modest, humble, ever questioning himself before finding fault with any one. His spirit was habitually stirred within him at the sight of the grossly fallen condition of the heathen world around him. Not twothirds of a century have passed since Mills and his fellow students met for prayer beyond the haystacks near the grounds of Williams College, and already has been fulfilled, amid heaven's untold glories, the saying, "He that soweth and he that reapeth shall rejoice together." The letter is without date, but it must have been written early in 1817. DEAR PHILOMELA: Bombay. Though I have never had the pleasure of seeing you, I seem to feel that I am acquainted with you, and that a kindred spirit exists between yourself and meperhaps I am too presumptuous in saying |