fect and beautiful. Talk to me as you do to the pastor and your sister, if you think it worth your while; otherwise-"

"Otherwise be off, and say nothing? That I cannot do, for Mr. Islington has driven the horses away," said I. "Yet I thank you for the suggestion; it is like opening a door very graciously for one who hardly hoped for more than opportunity to hammer away at the bolted obstacle, with no manner of assurance that it would ever be opened. But as to the tea-rose, you know all about it that I can tell you. You know that it stands alone on the frame made for it; and that on no account would any one venture to remove it, or to place other plants beside it. You know moreover that the number of buds apparent thereon is 969, or thereabouts; that not less than twelve roses are in full blossom; and that the sun is shining on them all as if it loved them, and had taken them under its special care. You know that the room is filled with their fragrance-why should I tell you about the rose-tree, then? I had much rather hear you sing 'Consider the Lilies.'" "Who told you that I sung it,

Agnes ?" "The pastor, Helen."

"Tell me first about the Georgia Cathedral." "Who told you that I had seen it, Helen ?" "The pastor, Agnes.' Very well," said I; "when your friends go to Savannah, tell them to continue their travels to Bonaventura, a place about five miles distant from that city. Not for the purpose of looking at the ruins of a place once, and for aught I know to the contrary still, in the possession of a commodore in our navy, but for the purpose of wandering through a road that rejoices in the name of Thunderbolt Road.' The avenue is more than a mile long, and the stillness of death reigns through its length and breadth. The roof of this Cathedral of Nature, its fretted archesthat is to say, the intertwined branches of those splendid oak-trees, the majestic pillars that line the great aisle-cannot be compared for beauty and vastness to those arranged by any human architect. Such a light falls there as was never seen even in the twilight gloom of the grandest 'storied fane.' The grove is of liveoak trees, and this is the wonder of it all; from the branches of those trees depend long festoons of hairy moss, gray and most venerable in appearance; you think as you look upon the bearded trees, of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and when the wind sighs through the branches, swaying the pendant moss solemnly to and fro, you say in a poet's words, 'It soundeth like Amen sung by a choir of mourning men; an affirmation full of pain and glorying!'

You might measure these beards not by the inch but by the yard. I wish all the world could go there and worship!" By which exclamation you will see, Lina, that I am not yet wholly recovered from the effects of our last visit, but I was doing my best at description, and of course was bound to present my own impressions with every sort of emphasis.

"What a place to die in!" was Helen's only exclamation.

It was the very thing natural for her to say, but I did not like to hear it, and I said, "The last place in the world. Infinitely preferable is the clear open space where the sunlight meets with no obstruction. No! when our souls go through the shadow of death, let the natural sunlight at least be around us. The place is, however, consecrated by a death, a tragic fate. They tell the story of a youth who was so impressed and affected by his visit to this remarkable spot, that he gave himself over to Charon there, voluntarily throwing himself into the dark and turbid stream that flows along its borders. He must have been possessed of a wild imagination, and so ran violently down and perished in the waters."

"Some unendurable grief was the occasion, doubtless. Now I will sing for you, before you ask me again, that you may be convinced of my desire to please you.'

And she sang, or rather chanted, with the sweetest and purest voice I ever heard, some verses, two or three of which I copy for you, they are so beautiful. The pastor bad repeated them for her, and she remembered them, and gave to them a tune; but he could not tell, neither do I know, the author. They are called

"THE INTERCESSOR,"
and the first verses are thus:-
"FATHER! I bring a worthless child to thee,
To claim thy pardon, once, yet once again.
Receive him at my hands, for he is mine.
He's a worthless child-he owns his guilt:
Look not on him-he will not bear thy glance-
Look but on me-I'll hide his filthy garments;
He pleads not for himself-he dares not plead;
His cause is mine-I am his Intercessor.

"By that unchanged, unchanging oath of mine-
By each pure drop of blood I lost for him;
By all the sorrows graven on my soul:
By every wound I bear-I claim it due
Father divine! I would not have him lost!
He is a worthless child-but he is mine!
Sin hath destroyed him-sin hath died in me;
Satan hath bound him-Satan is my slave-
Death hath desired him-I have conquered Death.

"I could not bear to see him cast away,
Vile as he is, the weakest of my flock,
The one who grieves me most, that loves me least-
Yea, though his sins should dim each spark of love,-
I measure not my love by his returns.
And, though the stripes I send to bring him home
Should serve to drive him further from my arms,
Still he is mine. I lured him from the world,
He has no home, no right, but in my love.
Though earth and hell combined against him rise,
I'm bound to rescue him--for We are one.”

I saw Mr. Islington passing through the yard while she was singing the first verse; he did not make his appearance in the parlor, but remained in the entry, until Helen had finished; his face was radiant when he came in; he had caught the words, and it was a great hope, either of the pastor or the friend, perhaps both, that shone in his eyes and broke forth in his words then, for he spoke as one inspired:

"When I hear a song like that, or any that has the spirit of devotion in it, sung in the church or out of it, by one or many, I love to think of it as ascending from this earth, mounting higher and higher through the arches of holiness, until at last it falls as a purified and pleading angel before the Throne of God. And I believe that the office of music, of song, is, legitimately, to exercise just such an influence upon our souls as we might suppose would be produced did the angel song, of which I love to dream, kneel actually before our Father, and plead for us in heaven."

This was a strain in which I had not heard the pastor indulge before, and of course for a little time I was quite struck dumb. I seem indeed to have beheld him in an altogether new capacity in this house, as another sort of man. As the consoler, certainly he has the most refined and exalted idea of what human friendship may be. And this office of the consoler he fills so well-he does the work here given him to do so cheerfully, apparently in perfect self-forgetfulness, as if in constant remembrance of the lines,

"The bruiséd reed He will not break
Afflictions all His children feel,
He wounds us for His mercy's sake,
He wounds to heal."

So is he waiting patiently for the healing and the restoration; hoping manfully, and doing unobtrusively what he may to hasten the desirable result. In the course of our conversation Helen spoke of life as of a desert, and such I can well imagine it appears to her!

But the good man would not allow it for a moment. "Let us rather call it a garden, my friends," he said. "It is filled with trees, and herbs, and flowers. True, the weeds find ample room for growth, but we may help to remove them; and as to the shade-trees, we may choose between them. Here is the Tree of Knowledge-there the Tree of Thorns. Choose. Here is enervation, sloth, and a sensuous joy-there toil, self-sacrifice, the rewards of faith! Under the branches of one of these trees a table is spread in the shade of the tree! and the fruit piled thereon is golden-does it seem fair and 'good'? From the branches of the other was a

crown woven-given the wearer—a King whose dominion shall have no end-in his last hour of life on earth; how emblematic of the life that He had lived! They who gather beneath this Tree may also rest, but their couch is not one of ease and luxury. The fruit they may gather, but it will neither intoxicate them nor much rejoice them. Yet will they be well content to rest there, and to feast thus, and to choose their staff from the thorn-branch, and, leaning on that, to be recognized among the subjects of the King that was thorned on Calvary. For they know that the revellers might as well feed on ashes as on that golden fruit. For them is it reserved to behold a 'splendor in the grass, a glory in the flower' quite independent of the visible beauty-in every act and duty of life they recognize a sacredness. The incidents of life are but accordant links in the chain of Providence; to them every passing event is full of wonderful significance. Joy or sorrow, let it come as it will, it's his ordaining, they accept it with -not resignation, let us not say thatbut with thankfulness. God is over all and in all; why can we not see that, and act upon it? How well Ruskine has said, 'His infinity is not mysterious, it is only unfathomable-not concealed, but incomprehensible; it is a clear infinity, the darkness of the pure unsearchable sea.

And much more that I do not now bear in mind; of which perhaps you will be glad.

"This friendship, of three links, I prophesy is to be no ordinary affair. Miss Renwick says it will end in a marriage. I hope it may, as I tell her also; and then sometimes she looks surprised, and sometimes incredulous; she will not believe that I am not eventually to take my place down there in the parsonage and become the minister's helpmeet! Quite obviously she is not yet awakened to an idea or a respectable appreciation of the manner of friendship, which so much invigorates the pastor and me! But let her " gang her ain gate" and think as she can; so long as she does not actually proceed to proposing terms in my behalf, I am content.

I am, after all, most fortunate. And I know that you are envying me this discovery I have made of a character that could love so profoundly as to weep itself blind when death came between it and the object of its love. It does indeed delight me that such a study is before me; I shall master it, be very sure.

And

I wonder if such a study could be afforded elsewhere than up in this region where impressions seem for the most part to be frozen in, or imbedded like crystals, amid

the natural and abundant rocks of the human nature, as developed. In all the "fiery Southerners" I have seen, I have never discerned the glowing of a passion so genuine as in this girl, of whom I have spoken so at length, for your edification. Yea, not of one who has turned suddenly to stone-or iron, alas, for I feel this last to be much the most applicable term; but this blind girl is a more agreeable, touching, edifying, and lovable monument.

I saw 66 Salathiel" as we came from the house after we had taken leave of Helen. I had seen him before and have seen him since: he is, as I told you, Helen's father. Her loveliness and his hideousness make a contrast such as only a very daring artist would attempt to portray on the same canvas. But in spite of his loathsome appearance, they tell me his heart is tender as a girl's, and his fondness for his poor child has no bound. He goes about arrayed in a coat that only does not drag upon the ground as he walks; a broad-brimmed hat, his head bent upon his chest, his eyes greedily peering ground-ward, and a more infernallooking object you never beheld. He had been an intemperate man for years, but his daughter's affliction seems to have wrought a change in him, and to have done a good work for him so far. But the vile habit has been so long indulged in that he is branded with it, and must bear about with him as long as he lives the proof of his fatal infatuation. What a blessed thing it is that they who, Nebuchadnezzar-like, go feeding as beasts through the fields of the world, must themselves bear their burden; that however they may distress, and trouble, and wrong others, the chief woe must alight on their own head! Blessed provision of Providence!

Since our first visit, I have been to the McLeods' alone, and such talks as we have, Lina! I may be doing this young girl some good by my cheerfulness-(my cheerfulness!)-and conversation; but she is doing more for me than I can do for her. I am willing to own it. I believe she will prove to me to be, to all intents, the philosopher's stone. They say that the spring bursts suddenly on this "

up country"-that a day of warm sunshine works a miracle here. I am waiting with impatience for the time to come; and listening, I cannot tell how eagerly, for the first song of Undine as she comes dashing through the forests, and over the mountain-side.

After that, I shall be fully revived but now, oh for a little warmth beside that of the roaring stoves! I want to be alone, not in the solitude of my chamber

It is spring-time here in the mountains and, more than spring-time, it is summer. Oh Lina, I have seen the miracle, and yet I'am not satisfied... Very clearly I behold the truth... There is nothing left for me! I must get me a thorn-branch from that tree of which the pastor spoke, and feast on its fruit, and then go on my way trusting to it for my support in the journey. The spring that was to have strengthened me, has made me as weak as a child; I could better endure the face of nature when she lay wrapped in the pure white shroud, than now, after this resurrection, when she appears so radiant in her joy and gladness.

You speak of Wayland's successes; why should you name him, and why do I? Let him pass. I do not know if am glad or grieved to hear of him, and it were folly to stop and strive to analyze my thought upon the subject.

But though this spring-time has, through its influences, shown me to myself in a way most likely to humiliate, I can but think, how infinite a compensation is it for them who endure the storms of winter, the piercing winds, the searching frosts. For them the disappearing snow, the breaking and the falling towers of ice; the warmer and the warmer wind, the budding tree, the springing grass, the unfolding flower; these are in their influence so happy that one thinking of these north-land people might well speak of the regenerating influences of the spring-time; understanding in the heart what that

means.

If I were a poet, I should be singing now, and, as it is, herein you find a supplement to the confession of weakness made above. I often do find myself singing in my heart. There is occasional melody there. It is surprising how at times we can totally forget ourselves, entirely lose our self-consciousness. We seem in such moments translated to a height above all individual griefs, and so transfigured that they cannot recognize us. I have been made alive to this fact, this spring-time.

There is another little child in the house and they call him Islington With Flora he is exalted into a sort of

household god-an object for general admiration and favor-and yet, it is touching to observe the increase of tenderness that marks her demeanor towards the eldest child. 'Bel was never surer of her place in the step-mother's affections than at this very time, when one would not greatly wonder if the young parent were engrossed in her new care.

A few mornings ago we were electrified, if I may use so strong a term of expression, by the entrance at the opened window of a large and beautiful butterfly, which fluttered about the room, and settled at last on the hand of the nurse, who held little Islington in her arms. And at this, the thoughtless old creature must go groping back, searching through her memory for a corresponding event-a newspaper story, of an insect that thus alighting, came, as ours proved by the after-event, to warn the household of a speedy death there. The poetical feature of the incident was not that which most deeply impressed Flora-she was lying in a dead faint when I went to her bedside! since then she has been very ill, and I am now writing in her room, and keeping watch here. Meantime the penitent old nurse-woman looks every moment as if she were about to dissolve in tears. It is certain she will tell no more of her stories for our edification; but as to the young Islington-death, I am confident, will not come nigh him. Yet though Flora has all the sureties of his long life that perfect health can give, an arrow is lodged in her heart that will not, I fear, be removed speedily.

Helen McLeod, I have had, for some time, under my special supervision! I have adopted her in my heart; and very likely I shall go into the village and take my abode with her, for this is her plea, and "Salathiel's," whenever I meet them!

What shall I make of her? I am sometimes quite at a loss to know. Is it not at all times and in every circumstance, an important, a momentous question? And the inquiry even from me is not possibly so absurd as you might deem it. For really I believe I have it in my power to make of her what I will. She defers, and submits, and depends upon me, in a way that would sorely trouble me if I had not the pastor at hand, who has at heart her best interests, and who will be sure to counsel wisely. From my convictions I honestly say, that if I could, I would immediately give to her another human love. Not that she might thus be brought to forget the old. But I am clearly convinced that, though no words of mine would induce her to believe it, all this affection which she is lavishing on the dead

She

is given to him solely because none say to her, or act to her this truth, that another can be to her what he was. has a loving heart, and one that Providence never intended to go languishing among graves, in the place of sepulchres. She is too young to be utterly and for ever cast down. I believe I know of one who but loves her better, more tenderly and devoutly, because of her affliction, and her manner of receiving it. And yet I say this, even while I bear in mind that Miss Renwick observed to me this morning, "When may your friends be so presuming as to congratulate you, Agnes?"

Do you guess what she meant? I asked, and the stupid answer was, "When will our pastoress be inducted into her new living?"

To say that I stared upon the questioner with an ill-controlled indignation, would be but a feeble expression of my glance, thought, or feeling, I fear; to say that something of an ominous and terrific tone was in my voice when I spoke, would hardly be doing justice to the exceedingly tragic emphasis with which I said, "Miss Renwick, was it of me that you were speaking with the pastor this morning when I disturbed you? You were counselling him to marry the stranger who had found shelter for a few weeks under your brother's roof! Let me tell you I regard this as a most cruel breach of the laws of hospitality, and if you wish to drive me from this place you are doing exactly that thing which will accomplish the object." But after I left the poor creature to the contemplation of these words, a thought of Flora and Renwick hurried me back to her still more rapidly, and I found her standing as if petrified in the same place: then I compelled myself to say; "I am not as happy as I have been in my life, why and wherefore you will not ask, but I will say that you wound me in a way that you would not willingly wound a fellow being, when you speak to me and of me as you have." I suppose I was half weeping when I said it, and I am sure I must have been half beside myself when I made this sort of confession to Miss Susan, but the true woman came up and triumphed in her over other central powers. I knew it, though all she said was, "I am very sorry, Agnes." I suppose besides that I forgave her thereupon when she asked me to do so-though perhaps not as entirely as I should have done, or, would I be telling this to you?

I must have a talk with Islington. am glad that he declined the honor of my hand! Of late I have prevailed upon Helen to climb the hills back of her father's place with me, we have wandered off many