A

THE SHADOWS WE CAST.

CHILD was playing with some building blocks; and as the mimic castle rose before his eyes in graceful proportions, new pleasure swelled in his heart. He felt himself to be the creator of a "thing of beauty," and was conscious of a new-born power. Arch, wall, buttress, gateway, draw-bridge, lofty tower, and battlement, were all the work of his hands. He was in wonder at his own skill in thus creating from an unseemly pile of blocks, a structure of such rare design.

Silently he stood and gazed upon his castle with something like the pride of an architect who sees, after months or years of skillfullyapplied labor, some grand conception in his art, embodied in imperishable stone. Then he moved around, viewing it on every side. It did not seem to him a toy, reaching only a few inches in hight, and covering but a square foot of ground, but a real castle, lifting itself hundreds of feet upward toward the blue sky, and spreading wide upon the earth its ample foundations. As the idea grew more and more perfect, his strange pleasure increased. Now he stood with folded arms, wrapped in the overmastering illusion-now walked slowly around, viewing the structure on all sides, and noting every minute particular-and now sat down, and bent over it with the fondness of a mother bending over her child. Again he arose, purposing to obtain another and more distant view of his works. But his foot struck against one of the buttresses, and instantly, with a crash, wall, tower, and battlement, fell in hopeless ruin!

In the room with the boy sat his father, reading. The crash disturbed him; and he uttered a sharp, angry rebuke, glancing for a moment toward the startled child, and then returning his eyes to the attractive page before him, unconscious of the shadow he had cast upon the heart of his child. Tears came into those fair blue orbs, dancing in light a moment before. From the frowning face of his father, to which his glance was suddenly turned, the child looked back to the shapeless ruins of his castle. Is it any wonder that he bowed his face in silence upon them, and wet them with his tears?

For more than five minutes, he sat as still as if sleeping; then, in a mournful kind of way, yet almost noiselessly, he commenced restoring to the box, from which he had taken them, the many-shaped pieces that, fitly joined together, had grown into a noble building. After the box was filled, he replaced the cover, and laid it carefully upon a shelf in the closet.

Poor child! That shadow was a deep one, and long in passing away. His mother found him, half an hour afterward, asleep on the floor, with cheeks flushed to an unusual brightness. She knew nothing of that troubled passage in his young life; and the father had forgotten, in the attractions of his book, the momentary annoyance, expressed in words and tones with a power in them to shadow the heart of his child.

A young wife had busied herself for many days preparing a pleasant surprise for her husband. The work was finished at last; and now she waited his return with a heart full of warm emotions. A dressing-gown, and a pair of elegantly-embroidered slippers, wrought by her own skillful fingers, were the gifts with which she meant to delight him. What a troop of pleasant fancies was in her heart! How, almost impatiently, did she wait for the coming twilight, which was to be dawn, not approaching darkness, to her!

At last, she heard the step of her husband in the passage, and her pulse leaped with fluttering delight. Like a bird upon the wing she almost flew down to meet him, impatient for the kiss that awaited her.

To men in the world of business, few days pass without their disappointments and perplexities. It is man's business to bear this in a manly spirit. They form but a portion of life's discipline, and should make them stronger, braver, and more enduring. Unwisely, and we may say unjustly, too many men fail to leave their business and cares and troubles in their stores, workshops, or counting-rooms, at the day's decline. They wrap them in bundles and carry them home to shadow their households.

It was so with the young husband on this particular occasion. The stream of business had taken an eddying whirl, and thrown his vessel backward, instead of onward, for a brief space; and, though it was still in the current, and gliding safely onward again, the jar and disappointment had fretted his mind severely. There was no heart-warmth in the kiss he gave his wife, not because love had failed in any degree, but because he had let care overshadow love. He drew his arm around her; but she was conscious of a diminished pressure in that embracing arm.

"Are you not well?"

She played and sang his favorite pieces, hoping to restore, by the charm of music, brightness to his spirit. But she was conscious of only partial success. There was still a gravity in his manner never perceived before. At teatime she smiled at him so sweetly across the table, and talked to him on such attractive themes, that the right expression returned to his countenance; and he looked as happy as she could desire.

From tea-table, they turned to their pleasant parlor. And now the time had come for of fering her gift, and receiving the coveted reward of glad surprise, followed by sweet kisses and loving words. Was she selfish? Did she think more of her reward than of the pleasure she would bestow? But that is questioning too closely.

"I will be back in a moment," she said; and passing from the room she went lightly up the stairs. Both tone and manner betrayed her secret, or rather the possession of a secret with which her husband was to be surprised. Scarcely had her loving face faded from before his eyes, when thought returned, with a single bound, to an unpleasant event of the day; and the waters of his spirit were again troubled. He had actually arisen, and crossed the floor once or twice, moved by a restless concern, when his wife came back with the dressinggown and slippers. She was trying to trace her countenance into a grave expression, to hold back the smiles that were actually striving to break in truant circles around her lips, when a single glance at her husband's face told her that the dark spirit, driven away by the exorcism of her love, had returned again to his bosom. He looked at her soberly, as she came forward.

"What are these?" he asked, almost coldly, repressing surprise, and affecting an ignorance in regard to the beautiful present she held in her hands, that he did not feel.

of her present, over which she had wrought, patiently, in golden hopes for many days-this dashing to the earth her brimful cup of joy, just as it touched her lips, was more than the fond young wife could bear. To hide the tear that came rushing to her eyes, she turned away from her husband; and to conceal the sobs she had no power to repress, she went almost hurriedly from the room; and going back to the chamber from whence she had brought the present, she laid it away out of sight in a closet. Then covering her hands, she sat down, and strove with herself to be calm. But the shadow was too deep-the heartache too heavy.

In a little while her husband followed her, and discovering, something to his surprise, that she was weeping, said, in a slightly reproving voice: "Why, bless me! not in tears! What a silly little puss you are! Why did n't you tell me you thought of making a dressing-gown and pair of slippers, and I would have vetoed the matter at once? You could n't hire me to wear such flaunting things. Come back to the parlor"-he took hold of her arm, and lifted her from the chair-"and sing and play for me. The Dream Waltz,' or 'The Tremelo,' 'Dearest May,' or 'The Stilly Night,' are worth more to me than forty dressing-gowns, or a cargo of embroidered slippers."

Almost by force, he led her back to the parlor, and placed her on the music stool. He selected a favorite piece, and laid it before her. But tears were in her eyes; and she could not see a note. Over the keys her fingers passed in skillful touches; but when she tried to take up the song, utterance failed; and sobs broke forth instead of words.

How foolish!" said the husband, in a vexed tone. "I'm surprised at you!" And he turned from the piano and walked across the room.

A little while the sad young wife remained where she was left thus alone, and in partial anger. Then, rising, she went slowly from the room-her husband not seeking to restrain her-and, going to her chamber, sat down in darkness.

The shadow which had been cast upon her spirit was very deep; and, though the hidden sun came out again right early, it was a long time before his beanis had power to scatter the clouds that floated in love's horizon.

women, selfishly, thoughtlessly-from design, weakness, or ignorance-are casting their shadows upon hearts that are pining for sunlight. A word, a look, a tone, an act, will cast a shadow, and sadden a spirit for hours and days. Speak kindly, act kindly, be forgetters of self, and regardful of others, and you will cast but few shadows along the paths of life. The true gentleman is always tender of the feelings of others always watchful lest he wound unintentionally-always thinking, when with others, of their pleasure instead of his own. He casts but few shadows. Be gentlemen-ladies, orin a word that includes all graces and excellencies-Christians; for it is the Christian who casts fewest shadows of all.

ELLEN LINDSAY.

BY A COUNTRY PASTOR.

"Yes, there are real mourners! I have seen
A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention through the day her duties claimed,
And to be useful, as resigned, she aimed."

is a very general remark, that in proportion as people are acquainted with the real ills, and exercised by the real sorrows of life, they fret themselves less about those of inferior magnitude. Yet I have known a long course of sorrow, or even one severe disappointment, to have had such an effect on the temper and disposition of some people, as to render their society disagreeable, and their company avoided, even by their nearest friends; while, on the contrary, it has called on others for the display of more lovely tempers and Christian graces, than were evinced in the hour of prosperity; and if ever I felt inclined to reason on the subject, or ask what occasioned the same circumstances to produce such opposite effects, my thoughts would probably revert to Clifton Hall; and in reflecting on the story of one of its inmates, I might find a solution of my question; one, least high, least honorable in the world's estimation-for Ellen Lindsay was in a dependent situation-but, in my eyes at least, she was truly noble. Ellen was not born to fill such a station as that she now occupied. Her father had possessed a large fortune; she was his only child; she had enjoyed friends, and wealth, and every happiness earth could give. She had now lost its gifts-riches had made themselves wings, and flown away; friends, worldly friends, did not remain behind; her father's death left her unprotected, as his improvidence left her unprovided for.

As she again and again experienced that most cutting of all the mortifications attending a change of circumstances, the heartlessness or alienation of those she had classed among her friends, her thoughts still turned to one she felt would be faithful; no change of circumstances, she would think, will ever change Neville-he will be the same in poverty, distress, and sorrow, as he was in prosperity and happiness. And she judged aright. Charles Neville was indeed the same; he had been encouraged to look on Ellen as his affianced bride; and he would, at the instant all others forsook, have flown to her side; and when others cast her off, he would joyfully have made her his own forever. But he was dependent on his father; without his consent he was unable to act as he would have wished, and this consent was withheld. Ellen Lindsay was no longer considered a suitable wife for him; and the young man, with the keenest regret, saw her exposed to the sorrows, and left to struggle with the troubles of a world, to which she was almost a stranger, while he was withheld from alleviating and sharing them, or restoring her to the rank she had held.

Amid all her griefs, none but the death of her father struck so deeply to poor Ellen's heart as this; she felt herself indeed friendless, left as it were alone in the world; but she now experienced the truth of two Scriptural passages, "When father and mother forsake thee, the Lord taketh thee up," and "There is a Friend who sticketh closer than a brother." When human friends deceived, she knew she had one who was true; when mortal hopes were faded, hopes immortal opened fresher to view; and ere earth yielded naught but bitterness, she had leart.ed to seek her first, best, purest happiness in heaven.

I was not a little surprised on hearing that Ellen Lindsay, whom I had known in far different circumstances, had come to the hall in

quality of governess. The situation may, in any case, be a trying one; to her it might be doubly so, for she was born to as high a station, and had moved in as noble a circle, as those now considered her superiors. Yet no murmur arose in her bosom; she saw the young people around her enjoying the heyday of youth-hers might be considered blighted; she saw them happy in the possession of friends, riches, every comfort-she did not repine; she felt the difficulties of her new situation-she never complained of them. To see her fulfill her little round of duties, one might have thought she was born to fill her present place; the cheerfulness which distinguished her, and the sweet

smile that at times animated her face, might lead a superficial observer to imagine no weight of sorrow had fallen to her lot.

But I saw upon her cheek a paleness that was not its native hue, but left there by the blighting hand of adversity; her smile, though sweet, to me was sad; and often when withdrawn from notice, I have seen her mild eye swim with tears. But her grief was quiet, unobtrusive, and chastened; her cheerfulness, her joy, arose from a source of which worldlings knew nothing; she reckoned that the sufferings of this present world were not worthy to be compared to the glory which should be revealed hereafter. Passing through the vale of misery, she found springs to refresh, from whence to draw comfort and strength; or looking beyond it, she caught as it were a Pisgah view of a better and happier place; beyond that bourne from whence no traveler returns, she saw a fair, a goodly land, where an inheritance had been purchased for her by its Lord, even at the costly price of his own blood.

With such a friend in possession, with such prospects in reversion, could she sorrow as one without hope? If her heart had centered in what earth could give, she well might; but her lot was better, the world she knew was passing away, and the glory of it; a time was coming when the great and the lowly, the monarch and the beggar, must lie down together in the dust; where then would be the distinction? Amid the slumbering clay, none; amid the spirits which animated them, O how immeasurable the distance, how wide the distinction! In that hour which saw them take their flight from earth, the question was not, whose lot on earth was highest, but whose life was holiest; not who boasted the most noble alliances, but who was most nearly allied to their God and Savior. So she was content to pass on, a stranger and pilgrim here below, seeking a city which hath foundations; to tread this earth as her Savior God had trodden it, a man of sorrow and acquainted with grief, so that she might render her life more conformable to his, and having her sins washed away in his blood, she might at the last enter into that rest which remaineth to the people of God. Connected with this high and holy aim was the conscientious discharge of every duty, social, moral, and relative; and proceeding from it was that assemblage of Christian virtues and graces, which adorned Ellen Lindsay, which gave peace to her own heart, and comfort to those around her. Her sorrow worked no bitterness in her heart; though afflicted herself, she envied not the happiness of others, she only wished it

flowed from a true source; her feeling toward them emanated from one pure principle, "If Christ so loved us, we should also love one another."

Thus, amid many troubles, she was active, useful, cheerful. Many a time, when I have seen the petulancy and discontent of others, my thoughts have turned to Ellen Lindsay; and I have praised, not the patient sufferer, but the religion which inspired that patience, and that resignation.

Notwithstanding the constant company and bustle at the hall, Ellen enjoyed as much quiet as she wished; her room was in the most retired part of it, and there-when shut out from gayeties and noisy pleasures, she seemed a solitary neglected thing--has she enjoyed a peace, to which, perhaps, the gayer beings who sought their happiness in them were strangers, and felt a joy even in her very sorrows, more pure, more calm, more abiding than their sprightliest hours of thoughtless merriment could afford. True, at times borne away on fancy's wing to the years that were gone, imagination pictured to her view scenes of bliss never to be restored, friends lost forever here below, and hopes which sprung from earth, fallen thither again; pictured all these as once they seemed, fair, and fresh, and stable, till she forgot the present in the past, roamed with delight through its endearing visions, leaned in fancy on her beloved father's arm, or listened with undissembled pleasure to the intelligent Neville; then suddenly starting from her waking dream, with a long, long sigh, she would remember such things had been, and were no more.

But not resigning herself to hopeless, unavailing sorrow for their loss, she would seek, in some active employment, to subdue the feelings their remembrance had awakened, and curb the imagination allowed to range too freely. Not that the retrospect of the past occasioned deep pain; there were, it is true, dark days of sin and folly noted in the page of memory; days when, if she knew God, she honored him not as God; when religion with her was a mere theory, not a heart-felt principle; when she cast dishonor on her Savior by not considering the sacrifice he offered for the sins of the world, and applying to him for the pardon he had purchased for all penitent and believing sinners.

These days were not to appear in judgment against her, but from their recollection she was rendered humble; she also felt a sweet joy and gratitude, in reflecting that the penalty attached to their errors had been laid upon one who freely endured it; that though a sinner, she was a sinner saved. It was not from a con