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We were not left alone in our labours: for Ellen had been loved by more than the home-roof sheltered. Old and young, poor and rich, united in bringing their gifts, regrets, and blessings to the chosen companion of the pastor they were soon to lose. There is something in the idea of missionary life that touches the sympathy of every heart which mammon has not too long seared. To see one, with sympathies and refinements like our own, rend the strong ties that bind to country and home, comfort and civilization, for the good of the lost and degraded heathen, brings too strongly into relief, by contrast, the selfishness of most human lives led among the gayeties and luxuries of time.

The day, the hour came. The ship was to sail from B. on the ensuing week; and it must take away an idol.

She stood up in the village church, that all who loved her, and longed for another sight of her sweet face, might look upon her, and speak the simple words that should link hearts for eternity. We sisters stood all around her, but not too near; for our hearts were overflowing, and we could not wear the happy faces that should grace a train of bridesmaids. She had cheered us through the day with sunshine from her own heart, and even while we are arraying her in her simple white muslin, like a lamb for sacrifice, she had charmed our thoughts into cheerfulness. It seemed like some dream of fairy land, and she the embodiment of grace and loveliness, acting the part of some Queen Titania for little while. The dream changed to a far different reality, when, at the door of her mother’s room, she put her hand into that of Henry Neville, and lifted her eye with a look that said, “Where thou goest will I go,” even from all beside!

Tears fell fast in that assembly; though the good old matrons tried to smile, as they passed around the bride, to bless her, and bid her good–bye. A little girl, in a patched but clean frock, pushed forward, with a bouquet of violets and strawberry-blossoms in her hand.

“Here, Miss Nelly–please, Miss Nelly,” she cried, half-laughing, half-sobbing, “I picked them on purpose for you!”

Ellen stooped and kissed the little eager face. The child burst into tears, and caught the folds of her dress, as though she would have buried her face there. But a strong-armed woman, mindful of the bride’s attire, snatched the child away.

“And for what would ye be whimpering in that style, as if you had any right to Miss Ellen?”

“She was always good to me, and she’s my Sunday-school teacher,” pleaded the little girl, in a subdued undertone.

Agnes drew her to her side, and silently comforted her.

“Step aside–Father Herrick is here!” said one, just then.

The crowd about the bridal pair opened, to admit a white-haired, half-blind old man, who came leaning on the arm of his rosy grand-daughter. Farther Herrick was a superannuated deacon, whose good words and works had won for him a place in every heart of that assembly.

“They told me she was going,” he murmured to himself; “they say ’tis her wedding. I want to see my little girl again–bless her!”

Ellen sprang forward, and laid both her white trembling hands in the large hand of the good old man. He drew her near his failing eyes; and looked searchingly into her young, soul-lit countenance.

“I can just see you, darling; and they tell me I shall never see you again! Well, well, if we go in God’s way we shall all get to Heaven, and it’s all light there!” He raised his hand over her head, and added, solemnly, “The blessing of blessings be upon thee, my child. Amen!”

“Amen!” echoed the voice of Henry Neville.

And Ellen looked up with the look of an angel.

So she went from us! Oh! the last moment of that parting hour has burnt itself into my being for ever! Could the human heart endure the agony of parting like that, realized to be indeed the last–lighted by no ray of hope for eternity! Would not reason reel under the pressure?

It was hard to bear; but I have no words to tell of its bitterness. She went to her missionary life, and we learned at last to live without her, though it was many a month before the little ones could forget to call on “Sister Ellen” in any impulse of joy, grief, or childish want. Then the start and the sigh, “Oh, dear, she’s gone–sister is gone!” And fresh tears would flow.

Gone, but not lost; for that First Marriage in the family opened to us a fountain of happiness, pure as the spring of self-sacrifice could make it. Our household darling has linked us to a world of needy and perishing spirits–a world that asks for the energy and the aid of those who go from us, and those who remain in the dear country of their birth. God bless her and her charge! Dear sister Ellen! there may be many another breach in the family–we may all be scattered to the four winds of heaven-but no change can come over us like that which marked the FIRST MARRIAGE.