I dare not trust my thoughts to dwell on blessings that were mine, Or, “hoping against hope,” believe one ray of joy can shine Across my path, so dreary now, that late was bright and gay, But, meteor-like, hath left more dark the track which marked its way. Yet I feel that thou art near me! my guardian angels thou, Who fain would chase all sorrow and sadness from my brow. For thou hadst strewn my pathway so thick with thornless flowers, I quite forgot that _Death_ could come to revel in our bowers. But now, I’m oh so lonely! my “household gods” are gone, And though my path’s a dreary one, I still must journey on. Yet Faith steps forth and whispers—Time flies, look up and see, For in his wake swift follows on a blessed eternity. * * * * * THE BROTHER’S TEMPTATION. BY SYBIL SUTHERLAND. CHAPTER I. “You look sad to-night, Alice,” was the remark of Mr. Colman as his young wife entered the sitting-room, and took a seat beside him with a countenance expressive of unusual dejection; “and where is Maggie this evening that you have been obliged to take upon yourself the duty of nursery-maid to our little ones?” “Maggie has gone upon an errand of mercy—to watch over a sick and suffering fellow creature,” replied Mrs. Colman. “It is a long story,” she added, in answer to the look of inquiry which her husband cast upon her, “but I will endeavor to relate it if you will listen to it patiently. This morning, Harry, after you had left home, I resolved to set forth in search of a seamstress who was making some dresses for our little girl. She had failed to bring them home at the time appointed, and as I had never employed her before, and knew nothing of her character, I felt rather anxious concerning the safety of the materials I had given her to work upon, and determined to go to the dwelling which she had described as her residence and learn the cause of her disappointing me. The house was in a miserable street some distance from here, and I hurried along till I came to it. It was a wretched-looking dwelling, such as none but the very poorest class would have chosen. The door stood open, and several ragged little Irish children were playing upon the steps. I inquired of them if Mrs. Benson, the seamstress lived there? They did not seem to recognize the name—but they told me that a young woman who took in sewing hired the back rooms of the third-story. Following their direction, I ascended three flights of stairs and found myself at the door of the apartment, where I knocked, and a faint voice bidding me enter, I unclosed the door and stood upon the threshold. What a strange and unexpected sight now met my gaze! Upon the floor, almost at my feet as I entered, lay a young and very beautiful girl apparently bereft of all consciousness. She looked so thin and pale that at first I