refinement of feeling, or did not appreciate the sacrifice which they were called upon to make.

But the die was cast. Another vessel was to sail for New York in a week. One of the missionaries and his wife were to return in it. The opportunity was not to be lost. Vara must go.

THE unhappy parents strove to conceal from their child the deep anguish and dark forebodings with which they regarded the approaching separation. In her presence they spake cheerfully and hopefully. Fortunately the necessary preparations aided the mother in avoiding exposure of her real feelings.

In that secluded home, untrammelled by the modes and fashions of artificial society, the mother had indulged her own fanciful and elegant taste in the arrangements of Vara's dress. Her husband encouraged her in gratifying a harmless pleasure-when so little of a refined nature was to be enjoyed; and often the fond parents studied together the artistic effect of some article of the child's simple wardrobe with a keener interest and delight than a stranger could have understood. The quick ingenuity and skilful hand of the mother wrought out of scanty materials an elegant wardrobe. Vara sometimes was arrayed in the light drapery in which we have already seen her, like a little nymph risen from the coral grottos of the placid lake; again she was attired as a

child of the azure skies, and then again, decked in all the gorgeous hues of the tropic flowers, she seemed the youngest child of the Southern Flora.

This innocent source of pleasure, that had so often quickened her thoughts and varied the monotony of her daily toil, was now to come to an end. The mother sighed as she examined garment after garment, and saw how unfit they were for the new home, where her little girl must conform to the established and often tyrannical habits of the world. She needed clothes, too, of greater warmth for the long voyage, than any she possessed. It required no little contrivance, on the part of the mother, and no little industry, to supply the deficiency. Old garments of her own, stored away as useless in that sunny land, were brought to light, and mind and hands were busily employed day and night.

The father, too, was occupied. Remitting his usual avocations, leaving the schools to the sole conduct of the assistants, permitting even the printing-press to stand idle, he esteemed it to be both his duty and his privilege, to devote this last week to the assistance of his wife and companionship of his daughter. It was a suggestion of Vara's, which he cordially adopted, that he should sketch all the familiar scenes in that island-home, that she might ever retain them in vivid recollection. He had a talent for drawing, which had been well cultivated, though long disused. As these attempts progressed, something of enthusiasm for the art returned. In this pleasant occupation, in the constant prattling of his child, whom he now learned to appreciate and love better than he ever had done, and in the long rambles which they took together in search of localities which had some interest in past associations, or in their own intrinsic beauty, the father was beguiled from the sad thoughts which at times overwhelmed him.

During the whole of this memorable week, Rutea kept herself out of sight. Yet wherever Vara went, a pair of large, black, dreaming eyes glimmered upon her through the bamboo lattice of the verandah, from behind the wicket fence of the garden, between the leaves of the clustering vines in the untrimmed woods, down from the topmost height of some lofty tree, or round the corner of a rock by

the sea-shore. Once or twice the native maiden crossed her path, hesitated at her call, and then ran away with all the speed of a stricken deer.

As for Vara herself, she often forgot, child-like, in present pleasure the coming trial. Her fits of thoughtfulness were more frequent than usual and more intense. Sometimes she was found bathed in tears. But she soon perceived that the evidences of sorrow in herself produced the keenest anguish in her parents, and, with a thoughtfulness and unselfishness peculiar to her nature, she would dry her own eyes, kiss the tears from the cheeks of her parents, and almost talk them into the belief that she longed to go to her new home, to enjoy the novelties which she was there to discover. On the whole, Vara spent a pleasant week. She was interested in her mother's work, delighted with the constant society of her dear father, gratified with the degree of importance which was attached to herself, and pleased, it must be confessed, with the prospect of a visit to that country, of which she had heard so much and dreamed so often.

It was the last day. Vara was intently engaged embroidering a book-mark, to be left in the family Bible, a last remembrancer of herself to her dear father and mother. The design was her own suggestion, though she was indebted to her mother for the method of executing it. It consisted of a rainbow, resting on a coral reef, encircling the name of Vara. "For," said she, "just as the bow in the spray of the breakers comes and goes, now bright, now dim, fading almost away, and just as you think it is really gone, shining out more beautifully than ever, so, dear father and mother, will be your thoughts of me,-they will come and go, when you are busy perhaps you will almost forget me, yet even in your busiest moments there will be a little, a tiny glimmering of me in your thoughts-and then, all of a sudden you know, something will flash over your mind, and you will forget everything else in thinking about your own dear Vara!" and the little girl laughed at the pleasantness of her own conceit. Then she added more gravely,

"I have another reason for preferring the bow to any other device; because, you know, it is the bow of promise.

Father, did you not say that the bow was made of drops of water?"

"Yes."

"And did you not tell me that the bow was the seal of a-what do you call it, father?"

"The seal of a covenant, do you mean?"

"Oh, yes, that's it. The seal of a covenant. And you told me that baptism was the seal of a covenant too. Now I am not sure, father, that I know just what you mean by the seal of a covenant, unless it is just "

"Just what, little one?"

"Why-just a-well, you see this bracelet, father?"
"Yes."

"Well, now, I promised Rutea that I would wear this bracelet always, and, as often as I looked at it, would think with love of her and of her race. Now, father, what I wish to know is, if this bracelet is a seal of a covenant between Rutea and me?"

"Yes, my child, to all intents and purposes it is."

The face of Vara shone with delight as she triumphantly exclaimed: "Well, then, dear father and mother, as often as you look at this bow, or at the real bow down on the reef, you must fancy that the bow of promise is made of the waters of baptism, and that it is the seal of God's covenant with you, the covenant of baptism you know, it is the promise of God I mean, to love me and be a Father to me, and to bring us all together again."

If Vara had not had so many reasons for her choice, the device, though difficult of execution, was pretty enough in itself to warrant the choice. With this device, Vara was busy on the morning referred to, when she suddenly broke the silence with a startling question.

"Father," and she emphasized every word, and stamped her little foot at almost every utterance, "do you suppose that Mr. John Stephens and his wife will ever dare to make me call them father and mother?"

The father bent down his head over his work,—he was shading the belfry of the little school-house, which just showed itself beyond the trees. In after years Vara often traced in those trembling lines the struggle in that father's