Mr. Colbert was the clergyman of the parish and lived near Mrs. Dunmore with his widowed mother, and often, as he took his daily walk, he bent his steps toward the cottage of his friend whom he had known in her joys and her sorrows, and from whose subdued and Christian conversation he derived both pleasure and profit. He had baptized and buried her little Bella, and now as he gave Mrs. Dunmore a kind and earnest greeting, he looked with painful interest upon the child who stood modestly by her side, and in whom he traced a striking resemblance to the departed. Mrs. Dunmore instantly perceiving the impression made upon him, hastened to present her young protÉgÉe, saying, "You have doubtless noticed how like my sweet Bella, the child of my adoption is in feature and expression—I trust to you, my dear sir, to aid me in trying to make her as truly like her in heart and life. It is a weighty responsibility that I have assumed; but He who directed the impulse to make her my own, will impart the strength and wisdom to guide her aright."

"You do me honor in admitting me to a participation in your new and sacred duties, dear madam," replied the clergyman, "be assured, I shall most gladly improve every opportunity offered me for the welfare of your little Jennie. Bella used often to walk with me," continued he, taking the hand of the little girl, "will you sometimes join me as I ramble about these woods and hills? Perhaps we can find some pleasant things to tell each other when we are better acquainted."

Jennie's dark eyes sparkled, as she looked to her mother for her assent to the kind minister's proposition, and as Mrs. Dunmore willingly agreed to it, she sprang with a glad step to meet old Nannie, who had come to call them to lunch. Mr. Colbert declined joining them on the plea of extending his walk, and bidding them good morning, soon disappeared amid the trees.

One moment he lingered by the little grave, and gathering from it a bunch of violets, he followed the path through the woods to the road, and then turned toward his home. His way led through an avenue of maples, whose dense foliage quite obscured the sky above his head. On either side, stretched green meadows, enameled with the fresh spring flowers; and beyond him, in the distance, the avenue seemed to open into the pure blue heavens, athwart which the fleecy clouds were ever and anon flitting like angels busied in doing their Master's will. The scene was rich and hallowed, and called forth the sweetest and purest emotions. "If the pathway through life was ever thus tranquil and serene," thought he, "and if the eye caught only such visions of beauty and grace as are now before me, how like Paradise would this earth seem! But it can not be; I must tread a rough and sometimes disagreeable road, and engage in fierce and bitter conflicts, ere I can emerge into the glories of that better land of which the beauteous scene I now survey always reminds me!" and, as he mused, he reached the top of the hill, and leaving the silent avenue, seated himself upon a rustic bench that was placed beneath an old maple near his home. The quaint old mansion stood alone upon a slight eminence, and on every side luxurious meadows, and orchards spread themselves out, until they reached the mountains. From various points three lovely lakes were visible—one, half hidden by its green belt of forest trees, another glistening in the broad sunlight, and a third lying in calm and placid beauty.

All about, in the rich pastures, cattle were quietly grazing, or resting beneath the shadows of the old trees, or frisking in the glad spring-time. The light and shade played upon the fresh landscape, as bright and somber imaginings sweep over a youthful heart; and as the young clergyman drank in all the glory and loveliness of the scene, his soul was filled with a rapture, which none can ever know but the earnest Christian, who sees in every bud and leaf the evidences of a beneficent Father's love.

Long he sat reveling in that unbroken quietness and beauty, nor did he perceive the soft footsteps of his mother, until a gentle hand was laid upon his brow, and she said, "My son, I am glad you have returned; poor Sam Lisle has been twice for you to visit his daughter, who can not survive through the day. He seemed greatly distressed on not finding you, and begged me to send you immediately to them when I should see you."

"I can not stop, now, dear mother," said he, as she pressed him to remain but one moment for refreshments. "I fear I am already too late," and he turned quickly away from the contemplation of the glories of nature, and passed again through the silent avenue, and on to the village, to wrestle with the sorrows of this weary life, where there was poverty, and suffering, and death.