from sight, or coaxed them nearer when they rose to the surface. Tired at length of her idle sport, she raised her eyes till they rested on the opposite reef. The long-rolling waves of the ocean, violently driven against this precipitous barrier, broke upon its top in sparkling showers of spray; and there, this afternoon, emblazoned on the quivering sheet, shone more brightly and distinctly than Vara had ever seen it, the gloriously painted bow of Heaven : "And where the eddying waters curled, Reflected from the arching sky Vara thought of the bow that first bent over Ararat; she remembered how pleasant it was in the rainy season, when the flood-gates of the sky were opened, to know that God had promised never again to drown the world, and that this bow was the pledge of that promise; then she wondered if the wings of angels were so beautiful as those dewy colours, and the bright smile faded, and a tear quivered in her eye, for she thought of the baby-sister whom angels had carried in their bosoms far away from the beautiful island. 66 Vara, Vara." Rutea," answered the child,—at last hearing the voice,-and bounding up the rocks, she ran to meet her friend, who now advanced, and, in the native tongue, chided her for playing truant and wandering so far alone. Rutea, daughter of a chief, was a beautiful maiden of fourteen. Her long black hair fell in glossy braids down her back. A wreath of bright-coloured flowers, intermingled with variegated leaves, encircled her head; a necklace of berries; bracelets of glass beads; and a mat of the softest texture and brightest colours, bound about the waist and reaching to the knees, completed her simple wardrobe. Her dark complexion; black hair; large black, dreamy, though somewhat stupid eyes, and rounded form, were in perfect contrast to the fragile, pale, spiritual little Vara. "I have been wishing for you, Rutea, to tell me some wild story of the ancient days." "Nay, child," answered the maiden, with an air of sadness, "I cannot tell you stories now,-perhaps never again, -but your father waits for you, Vara, and bids you hasten home." Rutea suddenly stood still, and heeded not the questions of Vara as to what her father wished, but seemed struggling with some uncontrollable emotion. At last, with passionate violence, she tore from her neck the string of shining berries, and bound them twice around the arm of Vara. She muttered, as she did so, words which Vara's limited knowledge of the language did not comprehend. She grew more calm. "Vara," she said at last, "my grandam told me, that whoever wore this charmed bracelet would love the giver; perhaps it is so; but whether so or not, promise me that you will always wear this bracelet, and that, as often as you look upon it, you will think with love on me and on my race; promise me, Vara, promise me," exclaimed the maiden, with increasing vehemence, impatient at the continued silence of the little girl, who was frightened by her impetuosity. 66 Why, Rutea," she said at length, "I think the berries very pretty, and would like to wear them for their own sakes, and I am sure I shall always love you and yours, whether I wear this bracelet or not; and I do promise you I will never part with it, if," she added with truthful simplicity, "if I can help it, Rutea." The island maiden caught the child in her arms, pressed her wildly to her bosom for one moment, then throwing the long braids of her hair over her face, she sprang away with a scream and a bound, and was soon lost to sight in a neighbouring grove of bread-fruit trees. Vara, frightened as she was at the abruptness and singularity of her manner, could not but be amused at the fantastic appearance of the flying Rutea, Left alone, she hastened homeward. In one of those quiet enclosures in which the Missionaries of the Pacific Islands like to cluster their dwellings, stood a one-story house, elevated three or four steps above the ground, its thatch-work roof projecting on every side over a verandah, the balustrade of which was formed of curiously woven bamboos. The whole was embosomed in the graceful foliage of young bananas, while at some distance in the rear towered the lofty summits of full-grown cocoa-nuts and bread-fruit trees. In front was an extensive flower-garden, gorgeous in the prodigal luxuriance of the tropics, and separated by a slight wicket fence from the rest of the mission premises. The house was divided into four spacious rooms, each communicating by doors with the piazza both front and back. In one of these rooms, easily recognised as a study by shelves, which occupied every convenient space, and were crowded with books, idols, and curiosities, the Missionary and his wife had held that day a sad conference. "Oh, Alfred,” the wife exclaimed, "can we, can we bear this parting? To send her away, to put an ocean between us, to know the probability that we shall never see her again on earth; that if she lives she may not be able to rejoin us here, and should she die, we shall not be near her to direct her to the Saviour, and soothe the hours of suffering-this is dreadful; and yet worse still, we send her to entire strangers, who may have few sympathies with us or with our dear sensitive Vara,-who may never understand her— who, through mere ignorance, or want of refinement, may make her life wretched, or who may impress upon her a character so different from what she would receive with us, that all harmony of thought, sentiment, and purpose-between her parents and herself-may be completely destroyed. This-this is fearful! I could bear her death better, than that separation of heart and interests, when the intellectual and moral affinities are wanting. I have prayed-prayed to be resigned-prayed to be grateful. I thought I had conquered myself, but”- a flood of tears prevented the con clusion of the sentence. The husband, hardly less overcome, pressed her to his bosom, and in silence mingled his tears with hers. Again and again he essayed to speak in vain. At length, with gentle violence, he put his wife aside, and fell upon his knees; she sunk beside him, and there they wept long in silent prayer. At length came audible words-words at first half spoken-then sentences broken, with sobs of agony -then more collected utterances of the believing soul, till the voice grew calm, and strong, and eloquent, and the pro mises of a covenant-keeping God were not only implored but realized. They rose from their knees at the very moment that little Vara's footsteps were heard upon the verandah. The mother, not daring to trust herself in the approaching interview, glided from the room by one door, as the child entered by another. "Man was made For the stern conflict. In a mother's love There is more tenderness; the thousand chords, Complain, like delicate harp-strings, at a breath; Which, like a root grown in a rifted rock, Mary Granger, left early an orphan, became the charge of an excellent aunt, who died just as her niece entered womanhood. She then became a member of the family of her nearest relative and guardian, a cousin of her father's, and there was initiated into fashionable life in the city of New York. The attentions paid to the beautiful, elegant, and accomplished heiress, were little gratifying to her tastes. At the house of her pastor she made the acquaintance of Alfred Austen, who had devoted himself to a project, then deemed romantic by some, fanatical by many. To the surprise of the world of fashion, Mary Granger became the wife of the enthusiastic missionary. She had well considered the undertaking, and she believed herself to be willing and prepared to encounter every hardship, and endure every privation which she might incur. But there was one sacrifice she did not foresee. She, who had never known what it was to have a mother, could not estimate the suffering of separation from a daughter. For twelve years the missionaries had laboured in the ocean island, and with great success. Of three children born to them, the second only, the little Vara, survived the period of infancy. She was now entering her tenth year. Soon after they left the United States, the news followed them of the entire loss of Mrs. Austen's fortune, through the depreciation of stocks and other causes which she hardly understood, and, indeed, as she supposed the loss irreparable, did not care to investigate. From this time they were wholly dependent on the meagre salary of the missionary. Happy in the work in which she was engaged, she had never regretted leaving her native land, and until now had hardly deplored the loss of property. Now, indeed, she felt the severity of that misfortune. How was the little Vara to be educated? How was she to be provided for in the way of worldly maintenance? What was to become of her-should they die, and the missionary's salary cease? They could not educate her there. They dreaded the effect on her character of the evil influences of that half-civilized island. They could provide her with no means of earning a future support. Besides, her health failed, she needed the more bracing air of the northern hemisphere. Something must be done to accomplish this object. They had no relatives to whom they could entrust her. The former guardian of Mrs. Austen and his family had long since ceased to correspond with one in whose tastes they did not sympathize, and whom they had always censured for what they regarded as a foolish marriage. Mr. Austen, like his wife, was early left an orphan. He had few near relatives, and they were not in circumstances to assume the charge he would have wished to commit to them. Only one expedient suggested itself. Modestly and most reluctantly an intimation was conveyed in the annual report of the mission-of a wish to provide a home and education for this beloved child. It was done under an imperative sense of duty. In their hearts they wished-they hoped-it would meet with no response: then, with a good conscience, they might keep their treasure to themselves, and leave the result to the God of Providence. It was not to be so. Accom The last arrival brought a letter from a Mr. John Stephens, of the town of Liberty, in the State of New York, offering, in kind and Christian terms, to adopt the child, and promising, in the name of his wife and himself, to bring her up, and provide for her as a child of their own. panying testimonials approved their ability, respectability, and piety. The tone, however, of the letter, and the anxious parents were not insensible to it, indicated, that however able and pious Mr. Stephens might be, he either wanted |