so repugnant
to man's nature, that there are but few who do not shrink from the
dread encounter. Poor Margaret had more to fear than this. She dreaded
not only the misery and poverty her tedious illness would entail upon
them, but she wept the bitterest tears when she thought of her orphan
child, poor, alone, and uncared for, when she should be taken away.
She was, however, too sincere a believer to remain long within the
shadow of the cloud. The God in whom she had ever trusted was ever
faithful to his own word. Had he not promised, "Leave thy fatherless
children to me, I will preserve them alive?" and is not his favour
better than life! And when she prayed, "Father, if it be possible, let
this cup pass from me," like Him whose true servant she was, she also
added, "nevertheless, not my will be done, but thine." When does the
Christian fail to receive comfort, when the child-like submission
inculcated in the gospel is exercised? Is not the chastening rod in
the hand of a Father who wounds but to heal? and he, who sees the end
from the beginning, nevertheless afflicts his children. Margaret
Raymond was therefore able to give up all into the unerring hand,
knowing that He who feeds the raven and clothes the lily would not
forsake her orphan child, but lead him, it might be by a narrow and
rugged path--but such is the way that leads to the strait gate, and
all who find eternal life must tread it.

CHAPTER III.

AN ORPHAN INDEED.

The spring advanced into summer, and on one of its calm and bright
evenings, Margaret, exerting her little strength, took William to the
grave-yard, and both seated themselves on the little green hillock
beneath which George Raymond awaited in peace the resurrection from
the dust. No costly monuments nor storied urns were in that simple
grave-yard. Some plain marble tablets marked the resting-places of the
dead; but there were memorials of deeper meaning and more lovely.
Trees waved their branches protectingly over the little mounds; kind
hands had planted them with flowers and kept them sacred. Thus it was
a pleasant spot, and full of hallowed remembrances. Margaret had never
spoken of her coming death to her son; but now, seated on the spot of
earth which must ere long be opened to afford a resting-place for
herself, she told him that soon, in a few weeks most likely, he would
be an orphan indeed, alone in the world, and with no friend but God.

How can the sorrow and astonishment