THE HAWTHORN. 73 



The day returned — it was a late cold spring and 

 only a few half-opened blossoms rewarded nny 

 anxious search. I was well-pleased, for the tree 

 furnished a type of him for whom my soul wres- 

 tled hourly with ray God. There were graces in 

 the bud, giving promise, but as yet no more : lying 

 concealed, too, except from the watchful eye of 

 solicitous love. I placed the little round pearly 

 things, hardly peeping from their green inclosures, 

 upon his study table ; mentally anticipating a far 

 richer developement both of flowers and Christian 

 graces, when another year should have passed 

 away. It did pass, and a brilliant season brought 

 the next May flowers to early perfection ; whether 

 the type held good, I know not — he was far from 

 me — but never can I forget the eagerness of sup- 

 plication into which my spirit was wrought at that 

 period. I had no assignable reason for it ; yet I 

 called on friends to make continual intercession on 

 his behalf. I thought it long to wait, and impa- 

 tiently asked. How often shall the returning sea- 

 sons speak only of hope ? When shall they bid me 

 rejoice ? 



" My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are 

 your ways my ways, saith the Lord." I have pon- 

 dered on those words, when I saw the glory of 

 creation withering, and its loveliness fading away 

 beneath the first chills of winter. I have dwelt 

 more deeply upon them, when my best purposes 

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