rung from her mental and hasty appeals to the great
source of benevolence, for support, if not for a change of spirit.
Still she never beheld Hetty on her knees, that a feeling of tender
recollection, as well as of profound regret at the deadness of her own
heart, did not come over her. Thus had she herself done in childhood,
and even down to the hour of her ill fated visits to the garrisons, and
she would willingly have given worlds, at such moments, to be able to
exchange her present sensations for the confiding faith, those pure
aspirations, and the gentle hope that shone through every lineament
and movement of her otherwise, less favored sister. All she could do,
however, was to drop her head to her bosom, and assume in her attitude
some of that devotion in which her stubborn spirit refused to unite.
When Hetty rose from her knees, her countenance had a glow and serenity
that rendered a face that was always agreeable, positively handsome.
Her mind was at peace, and her conscience acquitted her of a neglect of
duty.

"Now, you may go if you want to, Judith," she said, "for God has been
kind to me, and lifted a burden off my heart. Mother had many such
burdens, she used to tell me, and she always took them off in this
way. Tis the only way, sister, such things can be done. You may raise
a stone, or a log, with your hands; but the heart must be lightened by
prayer. I don't think you pray as often as you used to do, when younger,
Judith!"

"Never mind--never mind, child," answered the other huskily, "'tis no
matter, now. Mother is gone, and Thomas Hutter is gone, and the time has
come when we must think and act for ourselves."

As the canoe moved slowly away from the place, under the gentle
impulsion of the elder sister's paddle, the younger sat musing, as was
her wont whenever her mind was perplexed by any idea more abstract and
difficult of comprehension than common.

"I don't know what you mean by 'future', Judith," she at length,
suddenly observed. "Mother used to call Heaven the future, but you seem
to think it means next week, or tomorrow!"

"It means both, dear sister--every thing that is yet to come, whether in
this world or another. It is a solemn word, Hetty, and most so, I fear,
to them that think the least about it. Mother's future is eternity; ours
may yet mean what will happen while we live in this world--Is not that a
canoe just passing behind the castle--here, more in the direction of
the point, I