"Let those who sow in sadness wait Till the fair harvest come; They shall confess their sheaves are great, And shout the blessings home." "How I love you!" she exclaimed, on one occasion; "you are my spiritual father; and you (turning to my wife) are my spiritual mother! But, oh! how much more I love Jesus. Now I long to be with him." And thus aunt Flora passed away,—smiling, shouting, triumphing,—a "more than conqueror!" At sunset, one day, I had strolled down to the quiet nook, by the shaded lakelet selected as Mr. L.'s family burial ground. It was on his land, and in sight from the windows, as if they could not trust their treasures further off. Judson, an infant son, and aunt Flora, lay there side by side, under those three grassy mounds. I thought of that first, sad visit to the stricken family; of the singular way it was brought about, through the suggestions of my infidel friend; of the death on the prairie, and how this event, to which the mother was so long unreconciled, led to my removal to L.; of the subsequent labor and blessing. Returning to the house, conversation turned to that very theme. I reminded them of the remark at the funeral, that if they would cease looking at secondary causes, they would find that the Lord had gracious designs in his dealings with them. "Now," said I, "see what has resulted! you have the gospel here, a Sabbath school, a Christian church, a revival, and in your own circle, 'the blessing that maketh rich;' you are both in the church; the family altar, over the desolation of which your son mourned, is restored, and aunt Flora is in heaven. Is it not true that— "'God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform'?" "Yes," replied Mr. L., "it was hard losing our boy. But it has brought great blessings to us. God has done right," adding, in a husky voice,— "'Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.'" A RIDE TO A WESTERN WEDDING. AMONG the checkered scenes of missionary life on the frontier, there are not many more pleasant than a genuine Western wedding. The heartiness, the bold dash, the generous hospitality of the thing, and often the novel phases of social-life which it reveals, together, of course, with the "fee," which is rarely small in proportion to the ability of the parties, make the event quite welcome to the toiling preacher. One day, on answering a modest knock, there stood before our log-house door a young man, barefooted, coatless, with coarse, well-patched pants and rimless straw hat, his face beaming with a bashful happiness, which would at once have suggested his errand were it not for his garb, or rather, want of garb. "Are you the minister?" he asked. "Yes," I replied. Then followed a pause. "Is there any thing," said I, breaking the silence, "that I can do for you?" "Yes. I came to see if you could come down to Mr. Dearborn's next Thursday, and marry a couple." "Where does Mr. Dearborn live?"