The weekly Anglo-African., 1859-08-06


coarse, boorish boy, watched the curling
fame as it ascended, and built, all uncon-
sciously, fire of love and gratitude on
the altar of that uncultivated heart.
The season went on, and Netties mother
improved in health The thin figure
rounded out, the pale cheeks grew flushed,
and she took long walks and drives along
the quiet beach. Every morning when
Loose Ben came up to build the fire, that
dear little voice would say, Does you
love God ?" and when he had answered
with his stereotyped Ya-as," she would
add precisely the same words as before,
Does you pray to God in the morningY"
and again, with that stupid, wondering
look, he would say, Ya-as" But there
was change in this semi barbarian. Grad
ually the rough, heavy locks were trained
his wood-colored face grew clean, and his
hands evinced some marks of attention. BY
some mysterious process his clothes were
mended, and, little by little, Loose Ben
seemed to emerge from his loutish shell
into region of more thought and freer
scope. The hotel-loungers still called him
all kinds of strange and original names,
but he did not notice them; and had one
seen him going up to his daily duty to
Room Sc, smile might have been detect
ed lighting up his homely face, till it was
almost handsome. And as he entered, day
after day, came the same questions about
love and prayer.
One Sabbath morning, never-tO-be-for-
gotten day, for l am telling no story Of ic-
ton, dear reader, the rap came as usual at
Room Sc, and when the door was opened,
in walked Loose Ben, worthy Of the name
no longer. He brought the wood, not in
his usual way, but in basket, and, Won
der of wonders! he was attired in a neat
gray suit, from head to foot, and under his
left arm he carried a straw hat, bound with
black ribbon. Leisurely he went up to
the hearth-stone, and leisurely set the kim
dlings and the wood in their place. Then
he turned round and looked for Antoinette
A little voice came from under the cur
tains: Benny, does you love God2 Does
you pray in the morning2"
The boy drew his hands before his eyes,
and as Nettie made herself visible, he
went toward her, and fell upon his knees
at her feet.
" You dear little angel" he sobbed, TAX
ing her dimpled hand, and covering it with
kisses; every morning you ask me that,
and every morning l lie to you. Yes, l
lie to you; for | love no God as you say.
Then you ask me if pray every morn
ing, and lie to you again, and keep lying
to you, because didn't know no better
because l poor Dutch boy. But this
morning, you dear little angel, | tell
you / love God. | tell you / pray
to God; yes, | love-I pray" he added,
the tears running down his coarse cheeks,
while Mr.. and Mrs. Hayden stood looking
on full of astonishment. "You make me
go to God, you little angel you--you make
me pray to God, and / tell no lie any
longer"
Tears choked his utterance Antoi-
nette, scarcely knowing what it meant,
stood looking gravely towards him, a child
ish wonder in her face, until John Hayden
snatched her from the floor, and folded her,
with many kisses, to his bosom.
The scene changes to handsome dwell
ing in the city. Snow lies on all the
streets, white and glistening; the naked
trees, the gray caps of the houses, the iron
railings, all are robed in the shroud of the
winter days. All! some cold wind, some
snow, has entered that house; the white
drapery of the windows is untitled; chill
dren go in and come out again with sor-
rowful faces; the passing traveller looks
mournfully up as he wanders by-there
must be gloom in that house. Yes, the
snow white of death lies upon the forehead
of an only child
She is in her coffin now, with roses above
her pale bosom, and the little silver plate
says: Antoinette Hayden, aged seven"
What! is her mission done so soon? Does
the angel bathe her wings in the light of
heaven2 Even so!
In darkened chamber sat the mother
of this lovely flower, bearing her grief
alone with God. No sigh broke from her
bosom, no tear fell from her eye; she
looked calm-she was calm; but resigned
as she evidently was, the stern immobility
of her features told that grief, deeper than
could find any outlet, lay heavy at her
heart.
Rising up after her long vigil, she went
noiselessly down stairs towards the room
where her child slept the last long sleep.
As she was entering, a voice struck her
ear, as if some long-remembered music
had just sounded, the chord vibrated against
her heart She paused; the voice asked
for Antoinette-little Antoinette Hayden
and another voice mournfully murmured
the sad truth
Dead /" exclaimed the stranger; lit
tie angel deadl"
And then came feet along the passage,
and tall, dark man stood before her
You do not know me, Mrs Hayden" !"
he said, as, after moment, striving to pos
sess his selfcommand, he spoke.
"I do not, indeed" replied the bereaved
mother, in low tones.
"Ah! my dear madam, am he whom
your child's artless questions, morning af-
ter morning, pierced through the heart; /