composedly, and would have carried on her
part very well, had not little Eliza suddenly appeared before her in
exact shape and form, every outline and curl, just as her daughter was
when she saw her last. The little thing peered up in her face; and Cassy
caught her up in her arms, pressed her to her bosom, saying, what, at
the moment she really believed, "Darling, I'm your mother!"

In fact, it was a troublesome matter to do up exactly in proper order;
but the good pastor, at last, succeeded in getting everybody quiet, and
delivering the speech with which he had intended to open the exercises;
and in which, at last, he succeeded so well, that his whole audience
were sobbing about him in a manner that ought to satisfy any orator,
ancient or modern.

They knelt together, and the good man prayed,--for there are some
feelings so agitated and tumultuous, that they can find rest only by
being poured into the bosom of Almighty love,--and then, rising up, the
new-found family embraced each other, with a holy trust in Him, who
from such peril and dangers, and by such unknown ways, had brought them
together.

The note-book of a missionary, among the Canadian fugitives, contains
truth stranger than fiction. How can it be otherwise, when a system
prevails which whirls families and scatters their members, as the wind
whirls and scatters the leaves of autumn? These shores of refuge, like
the eternal shore, often unite again, in glad communion, hearts that
for long years have mourned each other as lost. And affecting beyond
expression is the earnestness with which every new arrival among them
is met, if, perchance, it may bring tidings of mother, sister, child or
wife, still lost to view in the shadows of slavery.

Deeds of heroism are wrought here more than those of romance, when
defying torture, and braving death itself, the fugitive voluntarily
threads his way back to the terrors and perils of that dark land, that
he may bring out his sister, or mother, or wife.

One young man, of whom a missionary has told us, twice re-captured, and
suffering shameful stripes for his heroism, had escaped again; and, in
a letter which we heard read, tells his friends that he is going back a
third time, that he may, at last, bring away his sister. My good sir,
is this man a hero, or a criminal? Would not you do as much for your
sister? And can you blame him?

But, to return to our friends, whom we left wiping their eyes, and
recovering themse