"Oh, father!" she sobbed, unable to control her feelings, and leaning her face against his breast as she spoke--"if you would never go away!" Tenderly the father drew his arm around his weeping child, and kissed her pure forehead. "Mary," said he, as calmly as he could speak, "for your mother's sake--" but he could not finish the sentence. His voice quivered, and became inarticulate. Solemnly, in the silence of his own heart, did the father, as he stood thus with his child in his arms, repeat the vows he had already taken. And he kept his vows. Wonderful is the power of music! It is the heart's own language, and speaks to it in a voice of irresistible persuasion. It is a good gift from heaven, and should ever be used in a good cause. THE DISTILLER'S DREAM. FROM the time Mr. Andrew Grim opened a low grogshop near the Washington Market, until, as a wealthy distiller, he counted himself worth a hundred thousand dollars, every thing had gone on smoothly; and now he might be seen among the money-lords of the day, as self-complacent as any. He had stock, houses, and lands: and, in his mind, these made up life's greatest good. And had he not obtained them in honest trade? Were they not the reward of persevering industry? Mr. Grim felt proud of the fact, that he was the architect of his own fortunes. "How many had started in life side by side with him; and yet scarcely one in ten of them had risen above the common level." Thoughts like these often occupied the mind of Mr. Grim. Such were his thoughts as he sat in his luxurious parlor, one bleak December evening, surrounded by every external comfort his heart could desire, when a child not over seven or eight years of age was brought into the room by a servant, who said, as he entered-- "Here's a little girl that says she wants to see you." Mr. Grim, turned, and looked for a moment or two at the visiter. She was the child of poor parents; that was evident from her coarse and meager garments. "Do you wish to see me?" he inquired, in a voice that was meant to be repulsive. "Yes, sir," timidly answered the child. "Well, what do you want?" "My mother wants you." "Your mother! Who's your mother?" "Mrs. Dyer." The manner of Mr. Grim changed instantly; and he said-- "Indeed! What does your mother want?" "Father is sick; and mother says he will die." "What ails your father?" "I don't know. But he's been sick ever since yesterday; and he screams out so, and frightens us all." "Where does your mother live?" The child gave the street and number. Mr. Grim walked about the room uneasily for some time. "Didn't your mother say what she wanted with me?" he asked again, pausing before the little girl, whose eyes had been following all his movements. "No, sir. But she cried when she told me to go for you." Mr. Grim moved about the room again for some time. Then stopping suddenly, he said-- "Go home and tell your mother I'll be there in a little while."