ed Mary. "I will sew this
feather in your hunting-cap, and then trust you, my own dear husband,
to God's keeping; but though I know he could take care of you without
it, yet I remember my dear father used to say that we were never to
neglect the use of all lawful means for our safety. His maxim was,
'Trust like a child, but work like a man'; for we must help ourselves
if we hope to succeed, and not expect miracles to be wrought on our
behalf, while we quietly fold our arms and do nothing." "Dear
William," she added, after a pause, "now that my father is dead and
gone, I think much more of what he used to say than when he was with
me; and I fear that we are altogether wrong in the way we are going
on, and I feel that if we were treated as we deserve, God would forget
us, and leave us to ourselves, because we have so forgotten him."

The tears were in Mary's eyes as she spoke; she was the only daughter
of a pious English sailor, and in early girlhood had given promise of
becoming all that a religious parent could desire. But her piety was
then more of the head than of the heart; it could not withstand the
trial of the love professed for her by Sullivan, who was anything but
a serious character, and like "the morning cloud and the early dew,"
her profession of religion vanished away, and as his wife she lost her
relish for that in which she once had taken such delight. She was very
happy in appearance, yet there was a sting in all her pleasures, and
that was the craving of a spirit disquieted and restless from the
secret though ever-present conviction that she had sinned in departing
from the living God. By degrees these impressions deepened; the Spirit
of grace was at work within, and day after day was bringing to her
memory the truths she had heard in childhood and was leading her back
from her wanderings by a way which she knew not. A long conversation
followed; and that night saw the young couple kneeling for the first
time in prayer at domestic worship.

The morning that witnessed the departure of the hunters was one of
surpassing beauty. No cloud was to be seen upon the brow of William
Sullivan. The bright beams of the early sun seemed to have dissipated
the fears which had haunted him on the previous evening, and it
required an earnest entreaty on the part of his wife to prevent his
removing the feather from his cap. She held his hand while she
whispered in his ear, and a slight quiver agitated his lips as he
said