instructions, and I am glad to do so.

slip of myrtle from my garden, and

There is

some of

the vervain which you loved. And dear Sir, farewell;" here a word or so, was erased, "Ellen Fanshawe."

The dear girl had enclosed the leaves which shed their fragrance as they fell. "You are fortunate," said I, with a few other of those meaningless nothings which young men are wont to use on such occasions.

Perkins laid his hand on my arm, and with a seriousness almost bordering on solemnity, observed-"Dear Charles, forbear. If there be aught worthy of veneration in this sinstricken world, it is the first gush of virgin affection, unconscious even to itself, of its aims and purposes pure, untainted, almost holy-ah, profane it not! It is as a gleam from paradise, the dying ray of summer's sun, the violet's odour, the rushing chords of sweetest harmony: nay it is each and all united, more than all,

unimaginable, inexplicable, unspeakable, save to those who experience it; it is itself alone -it is love! But," he added with a melting pathos of voice and expression that shall never leave my ears or cease to vibrate in my heart, "the innocent graceful Ellen can never, never be mine-no maiden may share her couch with me, for-for, and words of piercing anguish smote my ears, I shall die."

Here, the poor forlorn youth, and yet not forlorn, for I loved him in my soul, fell on my neck, and vented afresh, his pent-up emotions in a gush of bitterest tears.

That day my uncle was if possible, more than usually kind and affectionate. There were just the three of us at dinner; any addition unless indeed that of Mr. Power, and it so fell out that he did join us before the evening closed, would have been a sort of sacrilege to our feelings. And we sat and talked like wanderers on this mighty earth abiding for a few short mo

ments together, all conscious of the brief tenure of mortal existence, and the speedy fruition of eternity.

"When we survey this fair world," observed my uncle, "and think upon its green hills and sunny slopes; the umbrageous woods, the gushing rills, and mighty streams; the soft warm winds and destroying hurricane; the flowers, the plants, the minerals-even the inanimate stocks and stones, we experience a yearning towards the place of our nativity, our mother earth, the common birthplace of so many hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, as well as a strong reluctance to depart."

"It is even so," said Perkins, "yet the sun cannot shine on us for ever, nor the birds sing, nor the flowers blow. When as yet a child, the son of a neighbour was carried off by one of the diseases incident to infancy. The poor little darling lay composed and tranquil as if sleeping and smiling on his bier. What-is

this death I whispered to myself of which the people speak? It is very like sleep, yet, if this little boy sleep, why does he not awaken; he has already slept a long time? Then I saw the body placed in a dark box, and laid in a deep recess that was dug in the soil; and there was a sound of sobbing and wailing, as the earth rattled over the box, while one of solemn aspect came forward and spake. Soon the opening was closed up, and men made a sort of hillock above, and covered it with green turf. And in a short time, all the people went away, and left this little child with its beautiful and smiling face, lying alone in the cold damp clay. Then I wondered exceedingly, and felt sick at heart, I hardly knew wherefore or why. After a while, an old man with white and silvery hair, came up and took me on his knee, spoke to me and comforted me.

"The little child whom they put in the ground, and whom thou sawest a short while

ago lying silent and still, yet with a smile on his lips, is not entirely dead. He is not all dead, he said, as I looked up with wondering eyes at his hoary locks and furrowed face; he is not all dead, but his body only. His soul lives, and here he kissed my forehead-that part which thinks, and feels, and loves, and can never die. He whom you saw but a little ago, with the last sweet smile on his innocent face, no longer thinks and feels in the grave, but is a glad and joyous spirit, sporting with others outnumbering far the sands that line the ocean strand, or basking in the sunshine, not the sunshine that illumines these poor skies, but the sunshine which without let or stay, lights up eternity. He is not dead, but gone to a better place, where all must shortly follow him.

"And I kissed the old man's wrinkled cheeks, and patted them with my hand, and nestled in his bosom, for I was comforted exceedingly.