windows a soft, cool breeze stole from the bosom of the placid ocean, and fanned the few auburn curls which strayed out from beneath her cap. O! in that hour she seemed too beautiful for death too beautiful to be laid away in the cold, dark grave, where the worm revels on its prey.

The Pilgrims were all there-all had come in to witness the visitation of that dread tyrant, who takes from the arms of affection its cherished idol. That dread tyrant, did I say? I meant not thus. To the Christian, death is an angel of mercy; it holds the key which unlocks the golden gates of paradise; it introduces him to the glorious company of "the angels and just men made perfect."

The eyes of the sufferer closed for a moment, and her lips moved as if in prayer. While thus engaged, an expression of almost angelic beauty stole over her wasted features; her blue eyes unclosed again, and, raising her arm, she wound it around her husband's neck, and drew his face close to hers.

"Thou art very sorrowful, my beloved!" she said. 66 Why do you mourn ? We weep not when an uncaged bird seeks the blue of its native skies when a flower droops in our path at noonday, and withers. Why weep when a tired spirit seeks rest from the tumults of this world in the bosom of its God? when, like the bird, it tries its wing in an upward flight, and rests at last only in

its native skies? Why weep that your muchloved wife is now to make a most happy exchange of worlds?"

The form of the strong, stern Puritan seemed convulsed with internal agony, and he did not make reply. The sweet voice of his wife continued:

"I have lived a happy life I am dying a happy death. Most blissful has been my fate! I have never made one sacrifice too many in the cause of Christ. A little while, and you, my beloved, shall test the truthfulness of the promise given to those who leave "father and mother, houses and land," for the Redeemer's sake. Be strong be firm- be deeply rooted in the faith! Adieu! We will meet soon in a brighter world.”

And as she spoke, she pressed her lips for the last time upon her husband's brow. One by one the Puritans came up to take her hand, and listen to her parting words. When this scene was over, she sunk back again upon her pillow, and closed her eyes. "The bitterness of death had passed."

In the humble burying ground of the Pilgrims they made her grave, and laid her down with prayers and tears. One heart-broken mourner lingered long above the marble brow, and kissed and rekissed the cold-lips, before they gave her to the dust. In the wild agony of his grief, he at first prayed to die. His prayer, it seemed, was signally answered, for he survived the wife of his

bosom but a few months. They made his mound beside hers, and left them without sign or stone to mark their resting-place.

Years afterwards, there swept out from one of the castles of the old world a funeral pageant. There was all the insignia of grief that wealth could command. Long trains of mourners, richly clad in black, passed through the fretted vaults and long aisles of the cathedral, and paused at last beside a tomb, almost meet for the resting-place of kings.

The Duke of Devonshire was dead, and royalty paid his dust due honors. The domestics, left at home to superintend affairs during the absence of the mourners, swept out from the bosom of the richly-wrought, vestments the duke last wore a withered blush rose. None knew its historynone even noticed its fall. The heart near which it had so long lain had ceased to beat forever.

MISS C. W. BAREER.

-

NOTE. We have taken the liberty to omit some portions of this most interesting story, in order to bring it within the limits of our work. We trust the author will excuse us. - Ed. Life among the Flowers.

The doom upon the ear "She's not genteel!"

And pitiless is woman who doth keep

Of "good society" the golden key!

And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars,
To stoop not after rising.

WILLIS.

But nature, with a matchless hand, sends forth her nobly

born,

And laughs the paltry attributes of rank and wealth to

scorn;

She moulds with care a spirit rare, half human, half

divine,

And cries, exulting, "Who can make a gentleman like mine?"

There are some spirits nobly just, unwarped by pelf or

pride,

Great in the calm, and greater still when dashed by adverse tide;

They hold the rank no king can give, no station can disgrace;

Nature puts forth her gentleman, and monarchs must

give place.

E. COOK.

GERANIUM, DARK.

Pelargonium Triste.

LANGUAGE DESPONDENCY.

THOU who silently art weeping,
Thou of faded lip and brow,
Golden harvests for thy reaping
Wave before thee even now.

Fortune may be false and fickle —
Should you, therefore, pause and

Taking in thy hand the sickle,
Enter in the field and reap.

Though the garden, famed Elysian,
May be shut from thee by fate,
Thou hast yet a holier mission
Than to linger at the gate.

Brightest visions from thy pillow

weep? —

May have vanished; still thou'rt blest, While the waves of time's rough billows Wash the shores of endless rest.

Sit down, sad soul, and count

The moments flying:

Come, tell the sad amount

That's lost by sighing.

How many smiles? A score?
Then laugh and count no more,

For day is dying!

ALICE CARey.

TENNYSON.