'If anything happened to little Lily, I think the poor old man'-- and the sentence was not finished; and, after a little pause, he said, quite cheerily--'But I knew the spring would bring her back.

I knew it, and here she is; the light of the house; little Lily, my treasure.' And so he blessed and kissed her, and blessed her again, with all his fervent soul, laying his old hand lightly on her fair young head; and when she went up for the night, with gentle old Sally, and he heard her room door shut, he closed his own, and kneeling down, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, in a rapture of gratitude, he poured forth his thanksgivings before the Throne of all Mercies.
These outpourings of gratitude, all premature, for blessings not real but imagined, are not vain.

They are not thrown away upon that glorious and marvellous God who draws near to all who will draw near to Him, reciprocates every emotion of our love with a tenderness literally parental, and is delighted with his creatures' appreciation of his affection and his trustworthiness; who knows whereof we are made, and remembers that we are but dust, and is our faithful Creator.

Therefore, friend, though thou fearest a shadow, thy prayer is not wasted; though thou rejoicest in an illusion, thy thanksgiving is not in vain.

They are the expressions of thy faith recorded in Heaven, and counted--oh! marvellous love and compassion!--to thee for righteousness..