Leonora's love could avail anything for the life of our pet rose-geranium.

Early in the morning we discovered it, but alas too late, lying upon the bed where so long it had flourished in beauty, a broken fragment, dissevered at the ground. There were no traces of the ravager visible-no foot-prints, nor fingermarks the other flowers were all inviolate-but our pet was forever destroyed.

It was a gift from Alice Gray, and she was daily drawing nearer to the unseen world. It was a bitter disappointment to us both a disappointment which no one can appreciate in its fulness unless they, too, have received a gift from a dear friend just on the grave's verge, and watched it with a long year's care and love, only to hold it in their handsdead.

It was dead. Dead! there is something terrible in that word even when applied to a flower. Dead! Ask the bleeding heart by the grave of that word! Ask the gay child with its hoop and song; the Preacher in his surplice, the bride at the altar! Dead! the sound is the most terrible of all knells.

The word was ringing in my heart and brain when a messenger came bearing a note, snowy-white, but sealed with black, from the mother of her who gave me the geranium. Sweet Alice was dead.

"At what hour did she die?" I asked of the messenger. "Last night, just before morning," was his reply.

"Is it not strange," I said afterward to Leonora, "that in the same night, perhaps in the same hour, the geranium was broken ?"

"Who can tell," she answered me, "the connection between her spirit and that flower? The Soul is a mystery, and all beauty is one." We cannot conjecture how our flower was destroyed, whether gently or violently. It may be its unknown principle of life departed as sweetly as the soul of Alice Gray."

"How did she die?" I asked.

In the quiet night, just before dawn, they say, she was lying white as marble on her couch, not asleep, but with closed lids as though dreaming or wrapped in pleasant reverie. They thought her bet

ter, and the physician held out hopes of a temporary recovery. The lamp burned low in a distant corner of the room, and the nurse sat alone, shading her eyes with her hands, half-tempted to sleep. Without all was still: the holy calmness of a mid-summer night when the moon is full. Suddenly the pale dreamer arose upright on her couch.

"Did you not hear it, Jane?"

The half-slumbering nurse sprang up in alarm. "Hear what, darling?"

"A church-bell tolling. I heard it plainly. Listen! I hear it again!"

The terrified woman peered in the direction indicated by the girl.

"Do you not hear it now?" And she caught her by the arm and drew her close to herself.

"There it sounds, slowly, solemnly, I can count each stroke. It is tolling for a funeral."

Then she said in a subdued voice, as though addressing her own inner spirit, "Can it be for me?"

She sank down upon her couch. Her head drooped low between her white, sculpturesque arms, now emaciated by disease; her golden hair covered them with a cloud of glory. She spoke calmly in a sweet, low voice:

"You can sit down now, Jane. If I need you again, I will call.”

Alas! she never did call. In the sweet morning, when the robin came to her window to sing his song, came her friends to ask how she passed the night. She had indeed passed the night, and passed the glory of ineffable day, and bathed her pure soul in the radiance of another world. They found her placid in death a sweet, calm smile upon her lovely face the lids closed gently over her eyes, and her head still encircled by her white arms, covered with the glory of her golden hair.

Two days after, when the warm earth held in her bosom the beautiful tabernacle wherein dwelt the far more beautiful soul of Alice Gray, I, being comparatively a stranger in the lovely green valley of Old Virginia, asked of Leonora a simple narrative of the history of the young girl whose death we still deplored;

not suspecting for one moment the humble, yet painful drama in which she, in her physical weakness and woman's mightiness, bore the prominent part.

This is the unobtrusive history of that true heart as I received it from the eloquent lips of Leonora. And I would for your sake, oh, my reader, that those same lips might send it glowing to your heart, that you might know how the humble life of a wronged girl is revenged in the full soul, and thrilling words of one of her own sex.

Alice Gray was an only child. From childhood, having no playmates at home, her constant companion was a Henry Browne, whose father, a man of wealth and influence, dwelt in the large old house, whose tall chimneys are visible from the front windows of Mr. Gray's mansion. There are no other houses to be seen for miles; and from the line where their lands meet, far away in every direction, run their large, fertile fields. "A fine stroke of policy it would be," said Mr. Browne to himself one day, "if my only child, Henry, could win Alice Gray; for then you perceive❞— with a hearty rub of the hands-"all these far-stretching acres would belong to the house of Browne."

Truly, circumstances favoured greatly Mr. Browne's darling plan. Alice without a playmate, found one suited to her age and taste in the boy, Henry, and besides, both, according to a wise plan of his father's, studied under the same teachers. Uniformity of pursuit, and their segregated state, alone were sufficient to bind them closely in friendship, and moreover, there was in the two that contrast of taste and disposition which always in children, especially where there is an opposition of sex, acts as an attraction to make hearts cohere. Together in the spring they hunted the earliest wild flowers in the woods: in summer wove garlands under the trees, or watched the little fledglings fluttering in the nests, or essaying flight from the boughs in autumn strolled over the hills or through the woods to gather the large chesnuts whose burrs the yesternight frost opened, or stood hand in

:

hand, gazing at the mist-veiled mountains or listening to the merry songs of the huskers at work in the fields. And in winter they sat by the blazing log-fire and told each other fairy tales and tasked their weak imaginations in a cheerful rivalry.

Thus their childhoods passed, and unconsciously they loved each other. By no words had it been said, but each took it for granted; just as the little brother may not say a word concerning his love to his little toddling sister, and yet all the time love her with a love deeper than death. There was need of a revelation to show them that they loved, and moreover that their love surpassed the simple affection which often passes under that name; and that revelation came.

One cold morning in early winter, when a slight crust of ice was on the ground, word was brought to Alice that Henry Browne, by the fall of his horse on the ice, had shattered his arm, and reeeived other injuries of a deeply serious nature. Mr. and Mrs. Gray had just before driven to the neighbouring town on business, and there was no one to prevent Alice from executing her resolution to walk over to Mr. Browne's and ascertain for herself the nature and extent of her friend's injuries. The servants were unanimously of the opinion that "Miss Alice must hab hur own way," and offered but a trifling resistance. Wrapping herself in a cloak, forth she went, delicate girl as she was, along the slippery road, buffetted and chilled by the rude, cold winds that ever and anon drifted masses of snow in her face. Yet she was undaunted. On she went until she reached the house, and saw for herself the shattered arm and the cuts over the forehead, that left no room for doubt concerning the truth of the reports she had heard. At the sight her childish nature lost its control, and as she stooped to kiss Henry's pale forehead, a flood of tears broke from her eyes and ran down upon his face.

The revelation was made. The children (for they were such) knew for the first time that they loved more deeply than children generally do, and the

knowledge sent smiles over Henry's fine face. Mr. Browne and his wife saw not in vain; and beneath these idle tears of children, discerned afar the realization of their oft-discussed project.

The winter passed slowly away. And when the spring came with her birds and flowers, Henry was strong enough to walk out with Alice to these old nooks in the woods, where they knew the earliest wild flowers grew. And there, on the first of their spring-day excursions, he told his love, and encircling each other with their arms, upon a mossy throne of rocks, they vowed eternal constancy and fidelity then and forever.

We ought not to despise the loves of children. "The child is father of the man," and the loves of childhood swell and expand in after years with the mature fruit of the vine, whose pure juice is the most glorious intoxication which the human heart feels upon earth. And I hope to show here that, on one side, this love, pledged by two children in the shade of the woods, was more enduring than life.

Years passed on, and Henry's disposition, always adventurous, began to inflame with a desire for daring exploits for something to break up the old monotony of his country life. His blood boiled with a passion for heroic achievement, and every wild, thrilling story that could be found in newspapers or history, was read again and again with morbid avidity. His old passion for horsemanship and hunting grew effete, became almost distasteful, and home with its endearments, nay, even Alice's love, weighed little in the balance against this dominant passion.

Finally, wearied out by a fruitless resistance, his father and mother consented to his project to join a party of gentlemen about to embark for California. Sorrowfully they bade him adieu-their only son and hope-but they consoled their hearts with his oft-repeated promise, that after he had distinguished himself and satisfied his desire for honour, he would return, marry his dear Alice, and settle down to live upon the ancestral

acres.

66

It was in the sweet spring-time that he rode over to say, Farewell" to the girl whose life was bound up in his-whose faithful heart beat only for his happiness. Day, like a sweet, majestic song played to the lyre of angels, had died in "long, sequacious notes over delicious, sunsetpiled scenery, and tender twilight, as if a tear wrought by the melancholy of the strain in Nature's eyes, glimmered over the long stretches of the greening landscape. He lingered in the parlour long, as if loth to start on an errand that woke the slumberous energies of passion, though his horse pawed restively under the large locust; he mounted at last, but yet curbed his horse's ardour, and compelled him to walk along the smooth road where erst he struck fire from his noisy feet. What aileth him? Who can tell? But can it be that along the face of night move the solemn shadows of the Future-the long procession of coming days of sin and nights of disquiet, terminated with a sable hearse and a small, fresh grave? I know not. But if the Future be fixed, an occult Alp-land-and man alone be progressive, why may not glimpses of her awful front be disclosed through a cloud-rift, or a long shadow at times smite the face of him "who farther from the East must travel,” attended by visions of Heaven and phantoms of terror from Hades?

Alice sat in the long porch, watching the gathering shades upon the distant mountain. The book, with which she had beguiled her fancy, lay by her side; her head rested on her hand, as in statues I have seen, and the delicately lashed lids shut in the yearning sweetness of her meek eyes. She was dreaming, but sleep folded no pinion over her senses. Oh! Poets, tell me what it is when a maiden dreams, for I turn with eagerness from the painful memories of the nightdreams of my fancy to the conception of a sweet maiden's dream, painless, blessed? I know she felt no pain, for her face was as placid as a seraph's in that dim twilight.

But she started. The gate was swung open and swift as a bird's flight Henry

Browne spurred his horse along the broad avenue, under the drooping boughs of the old trees. She sprang to meet him.

"You are late," she said, "very late-my heart was sick waiting for you."

"But it is better late than never, darling. I was delayed by the innumerable preparations for my departure in the morning."

"Must you go, indeed. I have been hoping so fondly that you would yet stay. Why, to-night as I sat looking at the sunset, I dreamed that you would stay, and live at your old home, and we would be so happy. But what am I saying! You long to be a distinguished man, whose name shall shine as a star in the chronicles of your race, and I would die to make you so. Come, sit down and let us have a good talk this last night."

"That's sensible, Alice. I will not stay in California long-only a few years, and when I return we will always live together. And after Fame, that will fill up the complement of heaven or earth."

His tone was gay, bu artificial, and it wrung secret tears from her eyes. Could it be that he would be false-that his heart was as hollow as his words seemed to indicate! But she cast the thought from her. Her love was too steadfast and pure to harbour a doubt.

The night deepened, and taking his arm they walked down the avenue towards the gate. The hour of parting was come, and her woman's heart was taxed to its utmost tension. They arrived at the small gate through which they had so often passed in the glorious child-days that were no more. She paused and pointed her white finger toward a gleaming star in the west. Her tone was like one inspired to rule.

a winged splendour across the eyes of the world, ending in black night.”

The appeal was in vain. He drew her to his heart-his voice softened, and she saw large tears glisten in the moonlight. You wrong me, darling. In the presence of all these glorious hosts of worlds, I vow eternal love to you."

66

She clung to him, her face drenched with tears of joy. He pressed a burning kiss to her lips, and in a moment was in the saddle, and spurring like the wind along the homeward road. She watched him until he disappeared from sight in the dusk of the night and the shades of the trees, and then returned to her home.

What was it she heard as she closed the gate? Was it an illusion of fancy? To the last day of her death she affirmed that she heard the village bell toll a long, sad knell for a departed soul.

The year passed away, and another May night, the anniversary of that of which I have spoken, and its exact counterpart, hung like a holy prayer of angels over our old world. The stars that looked upon the earth that night saw no longer a beautiful being, reverie-wrapt, sitting in the shade of the old porch. Alice was indeed there, but she was not the Alice Gray of a year ago. Deeper sadness was upon her face, and a mute melancholy in her eyes, as she gazed long and ardently upon a blushing star that hung in the

west.

"He will not see it any more," she said, "it shines sweetly over his grave in a distant land."

Yet there was no sorrow nor repining in her words or tones. She kissed the rod of divine chastisement, and loved on.

Does love ever die? This is my answer. Does the soul ever find a grave?

One year before he had sworn eternal love to her, and now he was dead-that was her tender wail. They wrote his father that he had made one of a party who, upon deeply important business, had undertaken to pass through the territory of a hostile Indian tribe-and death to all save one or two, was the. consequence. He fell bravely fighting against an overwhelming host of savages, and his pocket-book, containing some

letters from Alice, and a lock of her hair, was transmitted as the last relic of Henry Browne.

After the first burst of grief was spent, she became very calm-no murmur escaped her but it was plain to all that her health was fast failing. When she walked up the aisle of the church on Sundays, all the people looked with pity on her pale face, and feeble form; all loved her with a deep love, for none could help it, but love never yet restrained a soul from leaving earth. She joined with her sweet voice in the psalm and responses, and many a voice in the congregation was silent, that her pathetic, penitential words might be heard.

Death is a great Artist. In his workshop Mortality is touched into glory like unto that which shines in the face of a saint. How can we doubt that that which is corruptible shall be made incorruptible and meet to stand in Heaven, when we see a lovely girl wrought into the perfect beauty of Death?

Oh! radiantly beautiful was Alice Gray when I first saw her, two years ago, riding out with her father to catch the fresh breeze of morning on the upland. I had heard of her loveliness, but was unprepared for that morning's vision. Her golden hair was brushed in bandeaux over her temples, disclosing the fulness of her white brow; her hat with its dark plumes was as a back-ground to her clear features, white as pearl, save on each cheek a glow of rose, reminding me of the gray sky of dawn blushing with tints of purple. All day my brain was haunted by her image, as a sweet poem haunts one, or as the deep eyes and mournful face of an Evangeline I saw last summer, have ever haunted me since.

It was through Leonora that I made her acquaintance some days after. One glorious autumn night I walked through the woods to carry her a promised book: it was just when the leaves, fully changed upon the boughs, were falling before the melancholy winds with such soft rustle and soothing music. It beguiled my fancy to gather the most gorgeous and weave them into a fantastic garland, just

as when a boy I used to gather the dry, gorgeous leaves from books and weave them into bouquets of fancy in my brain. The shades of evening approached, and the chilly air fell down from the sky as I entered the large parlour, rich with the crimson light of a grand Virginia fire, before which Alice was sitting.

She welcomed me with a sweet smile, and rising, extended her white hand.

"It grew so late I scarcely expected you would keep your promise. But I am so glad you are come."

I gave her the garland of leaves. “Autum presents them as her tribute to the queen of her domain," I said silently.

"Autumn is both wise and kind," she replied. Let me read you her moral. Youth flourishes in green beauty-sorrow comes like frost, and as life, shaken by the chill winds of affliction-warm winds in truth they are, they only seem coldcasts its foliage of hopes, the colours grew brilliant and varied, and cover a poor, cold heart with a shroud dipped in rainbows.

She has sent many oak leaves, I see. The oak is the brave heart that defies the tempest; though its leaves fall, it lives on hale and strong; the lightning may smite its cheek, and the snows pile against its trunk, yet when Spring comes it will bud and put forth leaves again."

The book I bore her was Tennyson's Poems, which she had never seen. She desired me to read some of the poems aloud.

"Shall they be gay or mournful?” I asked.

Both," she answered; "but mournful songs befit my spirit and the season."

I selected what to me appears the most wildly mournful poem in the language, "Mariana in the Moated Grange." It touched her to tears-sweet tears from a pure heart, tears such as Tennyson sings of as coming from memory of happy days that are no more. Was there nothing in the situation of Mariana akin to hers? Ah! yes, but she knew it not, else might she have made that terrible wail: