en heart refuses to be comforted.

Such a time was it with poor Frederick Mason when, after his return to
Sandy Cove, he stood alone, amid the blackened ruins of his former home,
gazing at the spot which he knew, from the charred remnants as well as
its position, was the site of the room which had once been occupied by
his lost child.

It was night when he stood there. The silence was profound, for the
people of the settlement sympathized so deeply with their beloved
pastor's grief that even the ordinary hum of life appeared to be hushed,
except now and then when a low wail would break out and float away on
the night wind. These sounds of woe were full of meaning. They told that
there were other mourners there that night,--that the recent battle had
not been fought without producing some of the usual bitter fruits of
war. Beloved, but dead and mangled forms, lay in more than one hut in
Sandy Cove.

Motionless, hopeless, the missionary stood amid the charred beams and
ashes, until the words "Call upon me in the day of trouble and I will
deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me," descended on his soul like
sunshine upon ice. A suppressed cry burst from his lips, and, falling on
his knees, he poured forth his soul in prayer.

While he was yet on his knees, a cry of anguish arose from one of the
huts at the foot of the hill. It died away in a low, heart-broken wail.
Mr. Mason knew its meaning well. That cry had a special significance to
him. It spoke reproachfully. It said, "There is comfort for _you_, for
where life is there is hope; but here there is _death_."

Again the word of God came to his memory,--"Weep with them that weep."
Starting up hastily, the missionary sprang over the black beams, and
hurried down the hill, entered the village, and spent the greater part
of the remainder of that night in comforting the bereaved and the
wounded.

The cause of the pastor's grief was not removed thereby, but the sorrow
itself was lightened by sympathy; and when he returned, at a late hour,
to his temporary home, hope had begun to arise within his breast.

The widow's cottage afforded him shelter. When he entered it, Henry and
his mother were seated near a small table on which supper was spread for
their expected guest.

"Tom Armstrong will recover," said the missionary, seating himself
opposite the widow, and speaking in a hurried, excited tone. "His wound
is a bad one, given by a war-club, but I think it is not dangero