"God Bless You."

R. ANNA B.

HE phrase is trite; the insincere
And heartless glibly use it,
And often hypocrites austere
To aid their projects use it;
But when 'tis spoken from the heart,
While griefs and cares oppress you,
The sun appears, the clouds depart-
That common phrase, "God bless you!"
Life often is a dreary road

When thorns and briers beset you,
And while you stagger 'neath your load
Small troubles sting and fret you;
It lights the eye and dries the tear
When all these ills distress you,
If from a friendly voice you hear

The common phrase, "God bless you!"
And often when the heart would speak
Its impulse sweet and tender,

And other words are all too weak
Its meanings deep to render;

Or gratitude a medium seeks

In which it would address you,
Then in the phrase a volume speaks,
That common phrase, "God bless you!"

Darkness, Then Day.

T seems but a dream-the "long, long ago," but the memory of some low, sweet song, with its minor cadences; but the transient

flush of an Autumn sunset, when the crimson glories of the hour melt away before the sombre shadows of night. And yet, how vividly does each scene rise before me on this chill Winter's evening, as I sit alone by my fireside, waiting, hoping, praying for a call to the "Home" where my loved ones are.

A stately, red brick building looms up before me, with its well-trimmed grass plats each side the paved walk that leads to the imposing portico shading the main entrance. Here, massive doors, like those of some feudal castle of olden times, swing upon their hinges at the resonant

No. 9.

call of the solemn gong which sends its dismal echoes through the long corridors, like the groan of some giant monster in the death throes.

A stillness of death reigns in the large, square drawing-rooms, with their ingrain carpetings and stiff horse-hair furniture. On each of the white walls religious engravings, in narrow walnut frames, look down coldly upon each unbidden guest that ventures within these hallowed precincts, sacred to the reception of "His Grace," and his tonsured aids; to the monthly meeting of the "board of trustees;" to the bejeweled dames whom spasmodic philanthropy induces, from time to time, to visit the good sisters, and to the rant of charity.

One flight further up, I see hundreds of orphans bending over their tasks in patient resignation to the decrees of fate that exacts from them labor proportionate to their years. Poor little waifs! From babyhood theirs is a life of unquestioning obedience to the black-robed nuns whose mission it is to inculcate lessons of virtue, that the fruit from sin-blighted boughs may ripen in eternal life. They are taught, too, to be grateful to the public, who sheltered, fed and clothed them, when their own parents had turned them adrift, motherless, fatherless, aye, often nameless, upon the charity of the world.

How well I remember wondering, in my childlike way, if ever I should meet this generous public and be able to thank her for my pretty cotton frocks and heavy shoes that were my pride as I toddled along with the smaller members of the asylum, each Sunday, to the big church where the organ paled forth its glorious tones, and the marble altars blazed with lights that made my little eyes blink. The priests in their golden vestments, the long, double row of altar boys in their crimson cassocks and linen surplices,

seeming people from another and a happier world of which we poor orphans formed no part. Then there was the sermon, when some one of the holy fathers ascended the pulpit and discoursed learnedly about salvation and eternal bliss, two words which so impressed themselves upon my mind that I determined to get them the very moment I was big, since they were of so much importance that the priests, and the nuns, too, were always talking about them. But ah! the fear that possessed me when there thundered forth denunciations against wicked sinners, and the priestly eye seemed riveted on me, as if I were specially marked for reprobation. I trembled lest he knew how tired I was, how stiff and sore from weariness, and how this, together with the fumes of the incense-laden air, had made me drowsy. Blessed relief! when those stern eyes wandered elsewhere, and I could hear his voice growing less and less distinct, until at length it ceased; a delicious calm stole over me-and I slept, my cheek resting against the hard back of the pew.

But ah! the punishment upon my return from mass! The prophecies predicted for my terrible impiety! How sadly did I creep away to my bed at night, and wonder if really the good God would wreak such vengeance upon a tiny girl like me. And yet each Sabbath it was the same offense, the same reprimand, followed by a keen but transient remorse of conscience.

One of such days stands out in bold relief before me. We had returned from vespers, and were assembled in the school room. I, with the guilt of impious somnolence upon my youthful soul, waited, like a trembling culprit, the sentence that would consign me to solitary confinement for the rest of the evening. Visitors came around on a tour of inspection. Welcome respite! A lady and gentleman stood in the doorway; the former resplendent in a robe of silken sheen, with sparkling jewels flashing from her ears and breast, as if some tiny stars had dropped from the sky above and nestled there. Her companion, a distingue-looking man, stroked his imperial, listlessly, while the lady (evidently his wife) conversed in low tones with Sister Ligouri. His restless, coal-black eye, in its wanderings around the room, rested at length on me. Perhaps the steadiness of my gaze caused this, for I felt fascinated by that handsome man. His whole face lit up with an expression the like of which I had never seen beam on me before. He touched the lady's arm lightly, and whispered a few words.

"Where?"

"To my left." And he motioned, I thought, towards me.

"How lovely! How perfectly lovely!" was the answer, in bated breath.

My heart sank then, for I knew it could not be of me they spoke. No one had ever called me anything but "naughty Edna St. Clair."

"Come here, child," said the lady, after conversing eagerly with her husband, in hurried tones. I thought she spoke to me, and yet I doubted the fact of my being singled out from the hundreds there. Not until Sister Ligouri had echoed the words, and called me by name, did I venture forward. Two soft lips touched mine, in the first embrace I had ever known.

"How would you like to live with me, and be my little girl?"

I could not speak; emotion choked me. Had, indeed, the good God sent a mother to me at last? A mother? Blessed name that nature's self implants in the hearts of lisping babes, name that grows dearer with each added year. The first to leave the lips, the last to be found written upon the heart when death calls hence.

"You know where I live?" continued the same sweet voice.

"In heaven," I falteringly answered. "Oh, dear, no; what made you think that?" she answered, laughingly. noticed that her husband and sister smiled, too.)

"You are so beautiful-not like any one here in the asylum. And-and you asked me to be your little girl-I thought perhaps you were my dear mother. That -that-God felt sorry for me, and had sent you back."

"No, dear, I have no claim like this; but I will be your second mother, and love you as my own child. Will you come, little Edna?"

"Yes, yes! Take me with you," I cried convulsively. "Take me far away from here, where there are no long sermons, no scoldings, no cross, hateful-"

I stopped abruptly, for the nun's eyes were opened wide in amazement at my audacity; and there was a warning light in them that filled my soul with terror. I grew afraid lest she would keep me in the asylum for punishment. But later on in life, I found how groundless were my fears; that orphans were but a drug in the market, and bidders rare. It was settled then, that on the following morning the good lady was to come for me. She would bring, she said, fit apparel, for mine would not do at all. What a heroine of romance I seemed to my companions for the rest of that evening as they crowded around me. I did not need to be told to thank God for having brought me such kind friends as Mr. and Mrs. Leroy, for I did thank him again and again.

Need I contrast my new life with the

old one? Am I equal to the task? Go, ask the pardoned convict to speak the ecstasy he feels when the prison gates fly open, and once more he breathes the blessed air of freedom. Go, ask the mendicant whom some freak of fortune transports from penury to wealth, ask him, I say, if mere words can adequately express his rapture. Let these give voice to their joy; then, and not till then, can I.

True, I was only a child at the time; but what a life mine had been, shut up in those gloomy walls, with every natural impulse of childhood stifled by set rules against which there was no appeal. Housed, it is true, fed, clothed. But housed by strangers; fed by charity; clothed in uniform, like the wicked convicts, and our orphan badges proclaiming us to all outcasts whom the world were better without.

The years rolled on. I learned to love my foster parents with a love akin to that the Brahmin lavishes on his gods. And I was all in all to them. My luxurious surroundings were in accord with the wealth of my patrons, who were acknowledged leaders in the select coterie to which they introduced me as their daughter, Edna Leroy. I was courted and caressed by all, for the opulence of my putative father shed a halo of worth upon me. Suitors there were in numbers, who poured forth impassioned vows of fidelity, and wept that they sued in vain. At first such scenes were painful to me, but they soon grew monotonous. And when I learned what an elastic affair a man's heart is, at best, I wasted no more time in regret. It was as well, for each disconsolate swain consoled himself elsewhere.

After long years of waiting, there came, at length, to bless my kind friend's home, a winsome baby boy; and as I saw the tiny little one nestling on his mother's breast, and read the fond look of pride in her lustrous eyes, I knew her brightest hopes were fulfilled. In vain I looked for some token of welcome in the father's face; there was, but as there always had been, a shadow as of some nameless grief. When first he saw his boy, he groaned aloud, and his face became ashen pale.

You

"Ernest!" cried his wife, in reproachful tones, "Is it thus you greet our babe? You do not love me, I know it now. have been for years sad and absent. I thought it was because of our childless lot. Yet, now that our son has come, you turn away from him. Oh! Ernest, Ernest, how can I live, bereft of your love?"

"Hush, my darling Inez, do not wrong me thus. Would to God I loved you less, then my heart would not be wrung, as it is now, by that tiny face, so like your own."

I waited to hear no more, but crept away noiselessly. I had that morning received a note from Rev. Mother Jerome, asking me to come to the asylum without delay, and thither I made my way. It was my first visit to this haven of my infancy, and I trembled as I thought what my life might have been but for the goodness of God. I looked upon the stately red brick building much as a traveler gazes back from pleasant places upon the rugged portion of the road he has left. I was shown into the drawing-room, the portress little thinking that the elegantly appareled Miss Leroy was the quondam asylum dependent-Edna St. Clair.

A moment later, and the reverend mother came. She spoke to me quite as if I were yet but a child; questioned me as to my welfare during the eight years I had been with my foster parents. And then she spoke to me of my mother dying in the hospital wards eighteen years before, and entrusting me to her care.

"She placed a small package in my hands, dear, addressed to you, and bade me keep it for you until the date written on the outside. It will unravel the secret of her birth,' your mother said. A moment more, and she was dead. I have kept the trust."

From under her cape the nun drew forth a square, bulky packet, and gave it to me. As I gazed upon the unfamiliar writing of my mother, my eyes were blinded with tears; for let the disclosure be what it would, she was my mother still. I felt I could not read the dear words there. Home! Home!

“Wait, dear," and the superioress drew from out the ample folds of her black gown an official looking envelope, sealed with red wax. "I was to give you this also."

I thanked the good nun, and withdrew. As I re-entered my foster-mother's room, I found her with tear-stained face, hushing her infant to repose. My foster-father sat white and silent by her side.

"Father! mother!" I cried, rushing to them. "I have but just received this— the history of whom and what I am. Let me prove my love and gratitude by placing it in your hands, unopened. Read it. It is but just that you, who have done so much for me, have made me all I am, have given me all I possess, should be the first to know whom you have befriended."

Mechanically raising me, Mr. Leroy tore the package open, and drew forth from a golden casket a bundle of letters, faded yellow with age. An agonizing cry broke from his lips, as he turned them over, one by one, and read the loving words inscribed thereon, all signed "L.," and addressed to "Edna St. Clair "-the Edna, no doubt, whose child I was. Opening