He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all day, superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him. He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as we walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing.

"Poor Mary!" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips.

"And what of her?" asked I; "has any thing happened to her?"

"What?" said he, darting an impatient glance; "is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation? to be caged in a miserable cottage? to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her wretched habitation ?

"Has she, then, repined at the change?"

Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort!

“Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself poor, my friend; you never were so rich: you never knew the boundless treasures of excellence you possessed in that

“O, but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day of real experience: she has been introduced into an humble dwelling; she has been employed all day in arranging its miserable equipments; she has, for the first time, known the fatigues of domestic employment; she has, for the first time, looked around her on a home destitute of every thing elegant; almost of every thing convenient; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty."

There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not gainsay; so we walked on in silence.

After turning from the main road, up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded by forest trees, as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage; a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it; and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grassplot in front. A small wicket gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of music. Leslie grasped my arm we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice, singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond.

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward, to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel-walk. A bright, beautiful face glanced out at the window, and vanished; a light footstep was heard, and Mary came tripping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty rural dress of white; a few wild flowers were twisted in her hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole countenance beamed with smiles. I had never seen her look so lovely. "My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are I have been watching and watching for you, and running down the lane, and looking out for you. I have set out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage; and I have been gathering some of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond of them; and we have such excellent cream, and every thing is so sweet and still here. O, said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly in his face, "O, we shall be so happy!"

come !

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom ; he folded his arms round her; he kissed her again and again he could not speak; but the tears gushed into his eyes; and he has often assured me, that though the world has since

gone prosperously with him, and his life has indeed been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity.

LESSON XXI.

Evening Prayer at a Girl's School.

HUSH! 'tis a holy hour; the quiet room

MRS. HEMANS.

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom

And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads; With all their clustering locks, untouched by care, And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayer.

Gaze on,
'tis lovely! childhood's lip and cheek
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought;
Gaze- yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,

And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?.
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity.

O joyous creatures, that will sink to rest,
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds, with slumber's honey-dew oppressed,
’Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun,-
Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes;

Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread ;

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;

Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,

Is woman's tenderness - how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sunless riches, from Affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds

a wasted shower!

And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship -

therefore pray.

Her lot is on you to be found, untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain ;
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And, O, to love through all things

therefore pray.

And take the thought of this calm vesper time,
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight.
Earth will forsake-O, happy to have given
The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven!

"NOT to myself alone,"

The little opening flower transported cries ·
"Not to myself alone I bud and bloom;
With fragrant breath the breezes I perfume

And gladden all things with my rainbow dyes;
The bee comes sipping, every eventide,
His dainty fill;

The butterfly within my cup doth hide
From threatening ill."

"Not to myself alone,"

The circling star with honest pride doth boast "Not to myself alone I rise and set;

I write upon night's coronal of jet

His power and skill who formed our myriad host;
A friendly beacon at heaven's open gate,
I gem the sky,

That man might ne'er forget, in every fate,
His home on high.”

"Not to myself alone,"

The heavy-laden bee doth murmuring hum-
"Not to myself alone from flower to flower
I rove the wood, the garden, and the bower,
And to the hive at evening weary come;
For man, for man the luscious food I pile
With busy care,

Content if this repay my ceaseless toil
A scanty share."

"Not to myself alone,"

The soaring bird with lusty pinion sings "Not to myself alone I raise my song;

I cheer the drooping with my warbling tongue,
And bear the mourner on my viewless wings;
I bid the hymnless churl my anthem learn,
And God adore ;

I call the worldling from his dross to turn,
And sing and soar.”