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The First Sorrow.

T was the twilight of a cheerless autumn day. The withered leaves were falling to the ground with a rustling sound, and the bare branches swayed to and

fro in the piercing wind, which whistled with a mournful music as it swept through the long avenue of trees that shaded the old homestead. In the pleasant oldfashioned sitting-room a more cheering scene awaits us, not in the inmates of Oak Grove, for one was near the gates of death, and angels were waiting at the portals of the tomb to convey her freed spirit to her Saviour's bosom.

A bright fire was burning on the ample

hearth, the wreathing smoke was curling up the wide chimney, and the huge logs were crackling and blazing, throwing a ruddy glare upon the time-stained walls, making fantastic shadows, and casting golden streams of light upon the rare collection of family portraits. There was the father of the present owner of the homestead, far advanced in the pilgrimage of life. Silvery locks

were mingled with the once raven ones of youth, and with a careless grace clustered around his wrinkled brow. The fire of youth in his eyes was dimmed, but there burnt now in their soft blue depths a calmer, holier light, that spoke of the glories unrevealed of the "spirit land." "Passing away" was plainly written on every lineament.

There was a brave, handsome youth; the features were pleasing, but their expression was far from it, even repulsive. One would gaze sorrowfully, and sigh as he turned away. Intellect was imprinted on the noble brow, and genius burnt in the fiery eye; an expres

sion of scorn curled the haughty lip, a halfcontemptuous sneer; nothing faithful, or lov able, or kind was there. Ambition seemed the ruling passion: his aim was to have his name written in the annals of the worldly great, but whether that name were written in the Book of Life, he cared not. Such was Harry Carleton, now a wanderer in a foreign land.

The portrait of the present owner of Oak Grove homestead hung over the mantel. The stern, compressed lip spoke an iron will, and the haughty eye told not of affection. The face was strikingly handsome; he could win admiration, but not easily-love.

Let us turn to a more pleasing picture,—that of a sweet, benevolent lady, with looks almost "too pure for earth." The eye so soft and pensive in repose, so full of womanly tenderness and truth; and the mouth, betokening gentle firmness and decision, could not fail of winning love.

A maiden was sitting before the fire: her

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