After she had remained for some years in the state we have been describing, Mrs. Sandford began very visibly to draw near the close of her life, and being perfectly aware of her condition, she sent one morning for Mr. Freeland, with a view of having a codicil added to her will, which had long been prepared, and, for reasons altogether unimportant here, was in his keeping.

Mr. Freeland, from long acquaintance and esteem, was in habits of familiar intercourse with Mrs. Sandford; and before he proceeded to the object of his visit, he conversed with her, until he had ascertained that she was perfectly sound of mind, and had a clear perception that she stood on the verge of life: her cheerful resignation and affectionate gratitude to those around her, unimpaired by her tedious sickness and confinement, retaining their influence to the last. He sat down at a small table, by the side of her bed, and wrote from her dictation at intervals, as her weakness allowed her to proceed, until, after sundry other instructions, she directed him to bequeath a considerable sum to her faithful attendant, Mary Robinson, " to mark," as she said, "her sense in life and in death of those services for which money could be no compensation."

Mr. Freeland had nearly completed his task, when, suddenly raising his head from the table where he was writing, he said, "Mrs. Sandford, what disposition do you wish to make of this money in the event of your surviving Mary?" "Sir," said the astonished invalid, turning her faded eyes upon him-"How can you speak of a thing so utterly improbable?" "It is, at least, possible," rejoined Mr. Freeland, "and for this possibility it is our duty to provide." Something like a smile passed over the shrunk features of Mrs. Sandford, as she replied, "Well, sir, if you think so, I leave it in that case to a distant relation who resides at I did not mention him before, because I know little of him, but I have always supposed him to be in easy cir

cumstances." This provisional clause was confined to Mr. Freeland's own knowledge.

Contrary to the expectations of every body around her, Mrs. Sandford lingered some weeks after this business was transacted, still evidently growing weaker: until at length, incapable of any farther effort, she lay nearly motionless, and if she retained any consciousness, at least gave no proof of it. At this time, Mary began to complain of feeling unwell; and in a few hours, though she struggled to the very utmost against the oppression of illness, she was compelled to give up her post at the bed-side of her mistress; for her complaint, being a formidable attack of fever, increased with such appalling rapidity, in her strong and full constitution, that the alarm of the medical man who attended her soon became decided hopelessness; and, amidst their consternation, the household had only the forlorn comfort of reflecting, that Mrs. Sandford could no longer be made sensible of the dangerous situation of her affectionate friend.

The interest taken by the neighborhood in poor Mary's fate was deep and sincere-but neither the efforts of medical skill, nor the zealous services of her anxious friends, could prolong her life—for the fiat had gone forth. From delirium, she sank into stupor, and breathed her last after three days' illness, just thirty-six hours before the death of her mistress.

They were interred on the same day; and many relations of both the deceased attended the funeral. A short time before the assembly formed into a body, to follow the coffins to the grave (as is usual in this county), a man rather past the middle period of life, in a threadbare black coat, with very white hair, and of a prepossessing countenance, walked up to Mr. Freeland, and said to him, "Sir, I am a relation, though a distant one, of the late Mrs. Sandford; I am a clergyman upon a small stipend, and I have seven children, almost

unprovided for. Is it not hard that Mrs. Sandford's property should descend to the relations of Mary Robinson? It was well bestowed

upon her but after her death, I think it almost unjust that I should be thus completely passed over." Mr. Freeland admitted the case, as the stranger stated it, to be a hard one, but recommended that no remark should be made until after the interment, in which final ceremony they were all summoned immediately to join. Dust was committed to dust. The aged invalid, after many years of suffering, and the young woman, called suddenly hence from life and health to her final account, were lowered into the grave; and the numerous attendants, who had paid the last tribute of respect to the dead, returned to the house of Mrs. Sandford. Mr. Freeland read the will himself— and when he had finished the clause which had, until then, been a secret from every other individual, a brother of Mary Robinson, who had come from a distance to attend her funeral, a man of vulgar and coarse manners, gave vent to his mortification in terms that were rendered still more odious and offensive by the oaths with which he accompanied his abuse of the deceased. But the medical attendant of the late Mrs. Sandford, rising from his chair, extended his hand to her estimable relative and legatee, with sincere satisfaction and sympathy-then turning his eye in another direction, he exclaimed, "Mr. Freeland, your kindness and prudence may be thanked for this!"

J. C.

THE OINTMENT OF SPIKENARD.

BY MRS. MARY ARTHUR.

LORDLY dome and glittering state,
All were fair to see,

Where the Saviour sat at meat,

With the Pharisee.

On the faces gathered round,

Pride was blent with awe :

Only one, among them all,
Jesus-pitying—saw.

Softly weeping-slow and mute,
With the glow of shame
Mounting to her snowy brow,

She, the sinner, came.

On his hallowed head she poured
Ointment, rich and rare,

Bathed his feet with gushing tears,
And wiped them with her hair.

Did he shrink beneath her touch,
He the guiltless one?
Spake he, bitterly, of wrong

Which her soul had done?

Nay! when sterner breasts around
Swelled in selfish pride,

Even thus he soothed the heart,

Trembling at his side.

"Seest thou this woman, here, And the gifts she brings? They to me are treasured up

With most precious things.

Though the hand that pours the balm Bore in sin a part,

In its work of love I read

Of a contrite heart.

"Many sins shall be forgiven

To a love like this,

That tells its power in every tear,
And glows in every kiss.
Thou"- and to the Pharisee

Turned his gentle eye,

"Gavest not, in all thy pride,

Gifts so pure and high.

"Water for my weary feet,

Offered not thy care;

She hath washed them with her tears,

And dried them with her hair.

When I entered in thy house

Came no kiss to greet;

She hath lavished precious ones,

On my weary feet.