Portage sentinel. [volume] (Ravenna, Ohio) 1845-1854, 1848-03-08

saviours, yet she needed not their caress-
ings; but with her mothers head against
her breast, she sat amid the sands, buried
in her deep, deep woe.
AT length, when with tears streaming
down their weather-beaten cheeks, those
friendly strangers would take her from her
lleless mother, Mary seemed to arouse.
They told her she must go with them many
miles, to find shelter-that night and a
fercer tempest were coming on, and that
she must leave her dead unburied. She
pressed her hands around her throbbing
brow, and while her sad blue eyes rested
for moment in gratitude upon them, she
gently waved them to depart, saying calm
ly, Il will follow And they left her-a
kind fisherman bearing her little nephew
in his arms-and she was alone, alone with
her dead. .-....
Impressing one long kiss upon that icy
brow, Mary Conway rose up quietly, and
going ye, further from the sea, dug, with
her own hands, u grave for her mother in
the sand. She then bore thither, in her
arms, as though it were sleeping infant,
The emaciated form, and laid it down to its
last slumber, took the kerchief from her
own breast, spread it over the beloved face,
and then carefully replaced the sand
She knelt above that shallow grave, and
with her cruclfx pressed to her lips, MUIR
INJURED brief prayer for the soul of the de-
parted-there, on the wild desert shore,
with oceans voice for q dirge, and the
tempest for requiem. Then in that ut
ter desolatlon Of spirit which has no out
ward manifestation-that great agony,
fearful in its fearless stiffness she turned,
aud meekly followed the footprints in the
sand, which told where her shipwrecked
companions had gone before her.
Oh, pale young mourner, sitting in thy
darkened chamber, giving way to thy sor-
row with passionate abandonment, listen.
The angels have called hence thy mother,
and thou hast indeed known the grief Of
griels; but if still unreconciled to Him who
willed thy bereavement, bethink thee of
one whose own hands laid to rest her best
beloved ones, shroudless and cofinless-
one who literally buried father and mother,
and had no time for ,oeeping!
The unfortuna,es met sympathy and
kindness in the fsherman's house, which
they reached at last, ana the next day
Mary Conway and her nephew proceeded
to the nearest town, where she sought and
found employment for them both, intend
ing to seek her brother, as soon as she had
earned sufficient to delray her travelling
expenses. All her money and papers had
been lost at the time Of the wreck,-a and
most unfortunately, the shock of that dis
aster, and her succeeding Affections, had
driven from her mind all recollection of
her brothers. place Of residence. She but
remembered that it was somewhere in the
state of New York, and she finally resolv
ed to go at once to the city of New York,
where she hoped to hear of the place she
wished to find. At last she reached that
great metropolis, still accompanied by her
young nephew, for her widowed sister,
when dying, had given him to her, and she
was ever faithful to the holy trust. She
soon procured situation for herself and
little charge, in boarding house, where
she remained about q month, still unable
to recall the name of the village to which
her brother had directed her. But one
day, stranger arrived, and on his trunk
being brought into the hall, upon the card
affixed to it, she recognised with cry of
uGllSuIs IlluI lOSt, IulI DlCSSCu WO1us
The next morning ssaw her and little
Alick on the deck of one Of the Hudson
steamers, waving adieu to the few friends
who had followed them to the wharf. At
Albany, Mary took passage on canal
boat, and travelled many hundred miles
westward; and always and everywhere,
though attractive in appearances and SO
unskilled in the ways of the world, and
utterly defenceless, she met but kindness
and friendlness. There was about her
the sacredness of sorrow-the impress of
suffering on her brow, and the tearfulness
Of her downcast eye, were eloquent though
mute appeals to the generous American
heart.
She reached S. at last, and was
clasped, half. f.fainting, in her brothers. arms.
Oh, who could measure his joy! He had
heard of the wreck of the vessel, and sup
posed that all he held dear on earth had
gone down with her. ....-7.r
Mary found neat and comfortable home
awaiting her, and soon life seemed not so
cold around her-a few sunbeams fell upon
her path, and the crushed flower, happi-
ness, took root in her heart again.
She wrote to, and heard from her lover
in ireland; his mother was still living, but
very feeble, requiring his constant care.
Twas on her second summer in Ameri:
ca, that sorrow came once again to poor
Mary Conway; came at the season when
mourning and sadness seem anost unnatu-
rain gorgeous June, the festal month OF
all the year-came before the first flush
of ime was past!N Her pride, her de-
pendence, her noble, devoted brother, came
home, one noon, from his work, with a
heavy eye, and the fevered blood rushing
through his veins like lava, flung himself
upon his bed, and never rose again.
One evening, as Mary satsby his side,
watching him earnestly, for she knew that
ssthe hour was at hand" he said, family,
ssPray, my sister;'' and the stricken girl
knelt, and lifting up her voice clearly and
calmly. in prayer all faith and fervency
and submission, commended the passing
spirit to its Creator. When she rose up,
she looked upon the face of the dead.
On the day Of the burial, little Alick
was taken i'll, with milder' form OF the
) same disease, and there was none Of kin
dred save his broken-hearted sister, to fol-
How Willis Copwav tn the sShc