Who can realize the anguish of a loving mother’s heart when called upon to part with the mortal form of a beloved child? Others may sorrow and weep; the nearest kindred may realize with pain a vacancy in the family circle, a niche in their love unfilled, that can never be occupied again. But they have pursuits, and in time enjoyments, to call their attention, and soon their grief becomes a tender, sweet, yet holy, memory. And well that it is so, for death was but a golden bridge over which their loved one passed to immortal shores, while she who left them bodily is unseen, simply because she has come so close to their hearts that she can enter into their love, and permeate them with a spiritual radiance. But the mother’s heart is longest in healing. How she looks for her darling to come to her! How she falls asleep weeping, and awakens with a sense of loss, of hopelessness that is almost akin to despair; and how she hourly calls in spirit the name of the one child who is dearest to her because unseen! Oh, darling mothers! Oh, sorrowing, heart-broken mothers! weep not; your dear ones are all around you, bringing love, peace, and comfort to your souls. They are _not_ lost; sweet and low they whisper tidings of a happy reunion yet to come; and though you know it not, their loving arms are around you, sustaining and strengthening. Their sweet lips meet yours; their white hands lead you onward toward the higher and the better life! Happy, blessed mother, who accepts this truth! To you it is a pearl of great price,—a crown of unspeakable glory. THE MINISTRATION OF SPIRITS. Oh, let my mission be to impress the glowing truths of immortality upon the hearts of grief-stricken mortals. To bear to mourning parents, brothers, and sisters, sorrowing husbands, wives, and children; to those who murmur because they believe death has torn their beloved ones from their grasp, this glorious conviction, that the dear ones are not beneath the sod, nor do they dwell millions of miles away, beyond the stars, but amid the glowing sunbeams that fail around their mortal friends, their tender faces shine; and through the golden mists of death their gentle voices are calling to loved ones here. Oh, friends, your dear ones are with you. Not one is lost, none are separated from you, they come to you in the gloom or sorrow, or in the stillness of night. They walk by your side and bless your lives. Whether your sight can pierce the clouds of doubt and fear or not, your loved ones surely come, and by permeating your lives with a holier thought and purer aspiration, they lead you nearer to the heavenly gates, which you shall one day enter, and finding your darlings close beside you, shall then know that they have never died. THE RAIN OF THE SUMMER-LAND.