They knelt together, and the good man prayed,—­for there are some feelings so agitated and tumultuous, that they can find rest only by being poured into the bosom of Almighty love,—­and then, rising up, the new-found family embraced each other, with a holy trust in Him, who from such peril and dangers, and by such unknown ways, had brought them together.

The note-book of a missionary, among the Canadian fugitives, contains truth stranger than fiction.  How can it be otherwise, when a system prevails which whirls families and scatters their members, as the wind whirls and scatters the leaves of autumn?  These shores of refuge, like the eternal shore, often unite again, in glad communion, hearts that for long years have mourned each other as lost.  And affecting beyond expression is the earnestness with which every new arrival among them is met, if, perchance, it may bring tidings of mother, sister, child or wife, still lost to view in the shadows of slavery.

Deeds of heroism are wrought here more than those of romance, when defying torture, and braving death itself, the fugitive voluntarily threads his way back to the terrors and perils of that dark land, that he may bring out his sister, or mother, or wife.

One young man, of whom a missionary has told us, twice re-captured, and suffering shameful stripes for his heroism, had escaped again; and, in a letter which we heard read, tells his friends that he is going back a third time, that he may, at last, bring away his sister.  My good sir, is this man a hero, or a criminal?  Would not you do as much for your sister?  And can you blame him?

But, to return to our friends, whom we left wiping their eyes, and recovering themselves from too great and sudden a joy.  They are now seated around the social board, and are getting decidedly companionable; only that Cassy, who keeps little Eliza on her lap, occasionally squeezes the little thing, in a manner that rather astonishes her, and obstinately refuses to have her mouth stuffed with cake to the extent the little one desires,—­alleging, what the child rather wonders at, that she has got something better than cake, and doesn’t want it.

And, indeed, in two or three days, such a change has passed over Cassy, that our readers would scarcely know her.  The despairing, haggard expression of her face had given way to one of gentle trust.  She seemed to sink, at once, into the bosom of the family, and take the little ones into her heart, as something for which it long had waited.  Indeed, her love seemed to flow more naturally to the little Eliza than to her own daughter; for she was the exact image and body of the child whom she had lost.  The little one was a flowery bond between mother and daughter, through whom grew up acquaintanceship and affection.  Eliza’s steady, consistent piety, regulated by the constant reading of the sacred word, made her a proper guide for the shattered and wearied mind of her mother.  Cassy yielded at once, and with her whole soul, to every good influence, and became a devout and tender Christian.