Pass over a couple of years, and behold me, the energetic actor—perhaps almost unclerical—in the events of the preceding narrative, now domiciled permanently in the “Mariotdale Hotel.” The old landlord—a good weaver—has resumed his place in the works, and frequently avows his satisfaction at the change which circumstances compelled him to make in his pursuits. Yorkshire John, his very self, is my landlord—and a quieter dwelling there is not in the country. Perhaps much of this is due to the good management of his wife—for she, after all, is the man of the house. And Bessie? Poor Bessie! We laid her down to rest in the churchyard two years since, for the illness she had was unto death. It was this shock which recalled the father to his senses; and rest assured I did not spare him. He was not a man who could _bear consolation_, for it seemed as if he could almost strike the person who offered it. He rebelled against the blow, but found that he was in the hands of a God who will reach those by affliction who refuse to be persuaded by mercy. Poor Bessie—did I say? Blessed child! If the dead can look on earth, she knows that her father and mother have been reformed and reconciled through her death; that father and mother have learned to believe that the early lost are early saved. And Mariot, my warmer friend than before, admits that my counsel was sound—that the souls as well as the bodies of his people are in some sense in his charge, and that he who neglects his duty in regard to the first cannot atone for that neglect by care of the last. I often float in the evening down to Bessie’s rock, and seldom fail to see in the twilight, THE VISION. Nor does it now prove to be of the earth, earthly, as once it did—for I know that she is in Heaven. * * * * * SORROW. BY ALFRED B. STREET. I saw at sunrise, in the East, a cloud— A form upon the sky; at first it seemed Gloomy and threatening, but at length it beamed Into a glow of tender light endowed By the soft rising light. How mild and sweet It shone! how full of holy tenderness! How like some hovering Angel did it greet My heart until I almost kneeled to bless! It brightened more and more, but less and less It melted, leading further still my gaze Into the heavens; with lovelier, lovelier dress It shrunk, until it vanished in a blaze. Thus sorrow, kindled by Religion’s light; Turns to a tender joy, pointing toward heaven our sight. * * * * * SONNET.—MORAL STRENGTH. BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.