"Must it,-must it be, dear Madge ?"—A holier smile,―loftier,-lit up of angels, beams on her faded features. The hand relaxes its clasp; and you cling to it faster-harder ;-joined close to the frail wreck of your love;-joined tightly-but oh, how far apart!

She is in Heaven;-and you, struggling against the grief of a lorn, old man!

But sorrow, however great it be, must be subdued in the presence of a child. Its fevered outbursts must be kept for those silent hours, when no young eyes are watching, and no young hearts will "catch the trick of grief."

When the household is quiet, and darkened ;-when Madge is away from you, and your boy Frank slumbering-as youth slumbers upon sorrow;-when you are alone with God, and the night,-in that room so long hallowed by her presence, but now-deserted-silent; -then you may yield yourself to such frenzy of tears, as your strength will let you! And in your solitary rambles through the churchyard, you can loiter of a summer's noon, over her fresh-made grave, and let your pent heart speak, and your spirit lean toward the Rest, where her love has led you !

Thornton--the clergyman, whose prayer over the dead, has dwelt with you, comes from time to time, to

light up your solitary hearth, with his talk of the Restfor all men. He is young, but his earnest, and gentle speech, win their way to your heart, and to your understanding. You love his counsels; you make of him a friend, whose visits are long, and often repeated.

Frank only lingers for a while; and you bid him again-adieu. It seems to you that it may well be the last; and your blessing trembles on your lip. Yet you look not with dread, but rather, with a firm trustfulness toward the day of the end. For your darling Madge, it is true, you have anxieties; you fear to leave her lonely in the world, with no protector save the wayward Frank.

are your

It is later August, when you call to Madge one day, to bring you the little escritoire, in which cherished papers;-among them is your last will and testament. Thornton has just left you; and it seems to you that his repeated kindnesses are deserving of some substantial mark of your regard.

66

"Maggie”—you say,

kind to me."

"Very kind, father."

"Mr. Thornton has been very

“I mean to leave him here, some little legacy, Mag

gie."

"I would not, father."

"But Madge, my daughter!"

"He is not looking for such return, father."

"But he has been very kind, Madge; I must show him some strong token of my regard. What shall it be, Maggie ?"

Madge hesitates;-Madge blushes;-Madge stoops to her father's ear, as if the very walls might catch the secret of her heart;-"Would you give me to him, father?"

"But-my dear Madge-has he asked this?"

"That I would never leave you, so long as you lived!"

"My own dear Madge, come to me,-kiss me! And you love him, Maggie ?”

"With all my heart, sir.”

"So like your mother, the same figure,--the same true honest heart! It shall be as you wish, dear Madge. Only, you will not leave me in my old age; -Eh, Maggie?"

"Never, father, never."

-And there she leans upon his chair;-her arm around the old man's neck,-her other hand clasped in his; and her eyes melting with tenderness, as she gazes upon his aged face,-all radiant with joy, and with hope!

A

IV.

THE END OF DREAMS.

FEEBLE old man, and a young lady, who is just

now blooming into the maturity of womanhood, are toiling up a gentle slope, where the spring sun lies warmly. The old man totters, though he leans heavily upon his cane; and he pants, as he seats himself upon a mossy rock, that crowns the summit of the slope. As he recovers breath, he draws the hand of the lady in his, and with a trembling eagerness he points out an old mansion that lies below under the shadow of tall sycamores; and he says-feebly and brokenly, "That is it, Maggie,-the old home,-the sycamores,the garret, Charlie,-Nelly"

The old man wipes his eyes. Then his hand shifts:

he seems groping in darkness; but soon it rests upon a little cottage below, heavily overshadowed :

"That was it, Maggie :-Madge lived there-sweet Madge, your mother,"

Again the old man wipes his eyes, and the lady turns away.

Presently they walk down the hill together. They cross a little valley, with slow, faltering steps. The lady guides him carefully, until they reach a little graveyard.

"This must be it, Maggie, but the fence is new. There it is Maggie, under the willow, my poor mother's grave!"

The lady weeps.

66 Thank you, Madge: you did not know her, but you weep for me :-God bless you!"

The old man is in the midst of his household. It is some festive day. He holds feebly his place, at the head of the board. He utters in feeble tones-a Thanksgiving.

His married Nelly is there, with two blooming children. Frank is there, with his bride. Madge— dearest of all,-is seated beside the old man, watchful of his comfort, and assisting him, as, with a shadowy dignity, he essays to do the honors of the board. The children prattle merrily: the elder ones talk of the