“Lilia—child—in mercy!—you harrow my soul!” Instantly she was motionless, but her face became like death, as it rested on the bosom of her supporter, and from beneath her delicate lids the large tears stole silently. Deeper and more labored became the respiration of the dying man; and as the agony of death wrung the drops from his working brow, he murmured unconsciously her name. In a moment she was at his side, with her small arms clasped across his heaving chest, and her eyes turned eagerly upon his face. “Lilia! my precious one—my child! _her_ blessing, not mine, rest upon thee!” “Thine! thine, my father!—Leave me thine!” He raised himself in his bed, and with her little hands clasped in his own, spoke solemnly, and in a firm voice. “Not with the lips of purity, not with the heart of the upright man may I invoke a blessing on thee, my Lilia. But if love, perfect love, that has never known chill or change; that has kept thee inviolate in the midst of guilt, and lovely, though surrounded by corruption—if such can win a smile from Heaven, it is thine.” His head sunk lower and lower, until it rested upon her innocent brow, and upon her shining curls. Suddenly she started with a piteous cry. “He is cold! he is dead! Leave me not yet, oh, my father!” and lifeless as the corse beside her, the orphan fell to the ground. Yet a few days, and Philip Mordaunt, strong in the hopes of youth and love, passed forever from the house of death. Unconscious that the little being, whose fair head rested upon his bosom, and whose welfare he had sworn to guard with a brother’s love, possessed indeed a sister’s claim; unconscious that his presence had soothed the dying hour of a parent; unconscious how nearly he had been sent forth branded as the son of a felon. Thus tread we ever blindly amid the precipices of our fate. * * * * * BIRD-NOTES. BY WM. H. C. HOSMER. Yea, the stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times; and the turtle, and the crane and the swallow, observe the time of their coming. JER. C. VII. V. 7. THE stork in heaven knoweth Her own appointed time, And like an arrow goeth Back to our colder clime: The turtle, crane and swallow Come, on unerring wing, When northern hill and hollow Bask in the light of Spring. But we, endowed with reason, Cannot foreknow the hour— The sweet, appointed season For bursting of Hope’s flower; When near the glad fruition Of toil that worked annoy— When sorrow’s drear condition Gives place to heart-felt joy. Lo! blighting frost encroaches On Autumn’s sad domain, And Winter wild approaches To end his feeble reign: The birds of passage gather And fly across the wave, Their guide a Heavenly Father, Omnipotent to save;