ful, and yet it will be like the face. There'll be an ideal glow about it, and yet you'll call it natural; and my father spoke to me and he said, "Child! child! here is fulness of joy, here are pleasures for evermore!' and I heard everywhere the clear echo of the words 'for evermore, for ever-ever-more;' and far up those heights came pealing down from a choir of voices, Eye hath not seen;' and sweeter voices from other heights answered back, 'nor ear heard ;' and higher still, as if from listening choral stars, floated down on the serene air, neither hath entered into the heart of man the things which God hath prepared;' and then myriad voices, away up those billowy heights, joined in one triumphal burst of song 'for them that love him;' echo answered echo back, 'that love him, love him, love him ;' and I awoke, and these words came into my mind, Fear not them that kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul.' I lay still with my eyes closed, thinking of my father's glad, bright look, and his joyous voice, and those words, Child! child! here are pleasures for evermore.' "As I opened my eyes I saw the morning stars shining down in my window, and I thought this sight of my father's radiant face was like a new morning star in my heart, clear and bright.

66 I arose, sat by this window, and here I have been ever since. And see, Mary, what I have done,”—and I held up a little card, which lies on the open leaves of the Bible, on which is a sketch of my father's face.

"How perfect," said Mary, as she held it in her hand; “it has not a single defect, the eye, mouth, and brow are all his." "Yes," said I, "it is my father's face. I was so afraid the dear, delightful memory would fade away. I sat down, with my soul bathed in the glory of that dream, and I have hardly stirred since. I shall have my father's portrait now. Carleyn shall copy it in oil, and I will write under it, 'Pleasures for evermore,' that whenever I look at it I can be reminded of the consoling words and the sweet look in my father's eye, as he said them, as if he would fold me to his heart. I think I can copy his expression exactly. It had an unearthly, marvellous beauty, as if kindled by immortal artist, in some gallery of Heaven."

Now I have seen my father, I know he is near me still. I would n't call him back, if I could; it would seem like calling a bird back from the sky, and binding its wings to the earth, and forbidding it to soar and sing any more. Yes, I know my father is near me still.

The most cruel thought about our dead is, that they are so

now.

far away; but I believe now, they are often nearer to us than our living friends. I shall always think my father is near me If the soul travels so far and sees so much, when shut up here in a mortal body, why should n't its range be greater and its vision wider when it goes at will and wish, without a mortal fetter to bind or a mortal sense to bar. Love must be intenser, memory stronger, when the blinding earth-veil is off; the soul's jewelled light will flash forth far into the past, forward into the future. I know he is near me now. I can't prove it from the Fathers, the ages or verses of the Bible; but I read in the sweet hymns of the ages of my heart, when this mortal is put off, immortal love and immortal longings faint not, fail us not.

When the cruel words still haunt me, "You have killed your father," I'll stifle the great sob that will come, with the sweet refrain of my dream, "Pleasures for evermore." It may banish the old haunting regret that has stung and stabbed me so constantly. "Louise," said Mary, "I am glad you have the picture, but you look like a shadow yourself; don't sit here every day by this oldfashioned grate."

66

Mary, you'll see me here by this grate whenever you find me alone. I'd like a grate, with a fire in it, in every room in the house, if nobody had to make and nobody clean them out, if they would kindle, burn, and put themselves out and light up again, as the stars do.

"These modern registers seem to shut out the clear glow of thought. But the grate, glowing and genial, suits every mood; its fitful fire is a pleasant contrast to the dumb furniture about me. The circling blaze cheers and inspires me. I sigh to leave it; it snaps and cracks and laughs its way up the chimney as I come back to it, with its joyous hilarity; it is my always amiable friend. I could n't be contented without it. If the house were full of furnaces, heaters, Etnas, I'd want one grate for myself, so that I could say to a friend, not a graceful card-leaver, but some dear good lady like you, Mary, with a blue cloud and blackand-white shawl, Come, sit by my fire.' Most all earth's angels come in clouds nowadays. The heart does n't want a registerside, but a fireside, where 'shadows can dance upon the parlor wall' shadows, those beautiful bewitching troops that modern conveniences are fast banishing to the great prairies of neglect. The dear old word twilight loses half its meaning when no glowing ashes fall on the hearth, but nut-cracking, apple-eating, go-tobed-early days are over now, and you can't find the word fireside

in city dictionaries; we see it in poetry yet sometimes; like love in a cottage, it reads well and sings well.

"Mary, I was thinking as you came in, that my heart was like this grate; yesterday it was cheerless, comfortless, cold; but this morning some little handmaiden comfort came and kindled a bright, fresh fire on its hearth, brushed away the old embers, took away the ashes, and now I see live, cheerful coals. The heart needs a deal of raking, sweeping, kindling; like the grate covered up with the blower, it will kindle at last. So enfold the heart in

calm dreams; it will wake up with a glow."

"I wish," said Mary, "all the bunglers, that can only make a dust, and fuss, and smoke in the heart, would let it alone; they'll be sure to take off the cover too soon, and the fire 'll go right out again."

"As I sit by my grate, Mary, this fitful November wind opens the gate of memory, and raises the bridge of thought. I lean my head on my hand, and wonder why was I born? Does the world want me? If I were a man I would accomplish something that would call me away at morning, and bring me back weary at nightfall. If the soul can bear all day long its knapsack of care, it will come home to rest, happier at nightfall than if it sits all day long in thought's easy-chair, in dressing-gown and slippers. But I am not an active, useful man; I'm only a woman, and seventeen, and all alone."

"I did n't know until yesterday that your mother was dead," said Mary.

"My mother went to Heaven last May. The lamps were just lighted as she went up to spend her first twilight among the stars. Sometimes I think I can see her now, with her soft brown hair parted over her pale, classic forehead, sitting by my grate, in that arm-chair. The chair is there yet, with the same green cover and cushion. After one has one great sorrow, Mary, another will most always come soon, and we bear it better; we leave the gate of the heart open for joy's funeral-procession to walk in; we only bow our heads meekly, as if waiting for the next grief.”

"Your mother left you a fortune," said Mary.

"No; she left me her prayers, and the memory of her fragrant life, her noble example, and her parting blessing. After paying all expenses, I had only five dollars left. I was wronged out of the property my father had, and I had no friend of whom I would beg or borrow one cent. My mother was buried in Greenwood, in a beautiful spot, beside my father. I was there yesterday; the

birds had built a nest in one of the trees. The place is a perfect bower of evergreens; on the summit of the monument is a marble figure, whose classic features are so like my beautiful mother's. Over the face, these immortal trees bend their loving shadows, and kiss the brow. You can hear the murmur of the fountain near, and catch, through the trees, glimpses of the distant ocean, with the white sails calmly moving on their placid way, and you think how, far away from earth's beautiful Greenwood, white-robed spirits sail calmly, on the serene sea of Eternity.

"I shut myself up three days, after my mother died, and thought and grieved, and grieved and thought, and on the fourth day, for I knew I must do something, I took out my writing-desk, selected my best pen and a clear sheet of paper, and answered two of the advertisements for teachers which I saw in that morning's paper. Then I wrote some advertisements for a situation as teacher, or as a resident or visiting governess. I spent one whole day in writing and copying on small slips of paper these notices. I had had what is called an accomplished and thorough education. My father had no son, and, so far as he could, he gave me the education he would have given a son; it was his theory, that, if a woman's mind was weaker than man's, it needed strengthening; if it were really strong, it needed culture. I read Virgil, Horace, Terence, Lucian, Homer, in the original. I read all the Iliad, and large portions of the Odyssey, and I had translated French comedies. My father always chided me if I was indolent, and encouraged me when industrious. He said, whatever was the native soil of woman's intellect, it needed enriching and planting with the best thoughts that would grow there.

"I could sing and execute, I suppose, with some expression and taste, but yet I dreaded to insert that fearful clause, Can teach music and give instruction in Latin and French.' In music, how could I be scientific, methodic, or precise enough; as to French, few English tongues give a good Parisian accent. I always hesitate and stammer when I talk with a Frenchman. I fear his critical, correct, and native ear; and as to Latin, how could I compare with those classical, spectacled, and erudite Oxford professors, who know better where some classic river runs, or Greek mountain rears its head, than where the Hudson flows, or the blue Catskills kiss the clouds. But at last I wrote this notice, modest enough, I hoped, Can teach the common and higher English branches, and the rudiments of Latin and Greek; will give lessons in French, Music, and Drawing, if desired.' This I

carefully copied, crossed, dotted, and punctuated, and had inserted in two daily papers. But, oh! how I did dread teaching. Setting myself up as a model in mind, morals, and manners; always prompt, precise, perpendicular, in talking and acting; forever on guard; self-bivouacked, self-sustaining, self-reliant. I never could teach for the pleasure of it; I should only teach because I had to. I knew I was young for a school-ma'am. I tried to brush out the waves in my hair, and I tucked my ringlets under my net." Here Mary interrupted me with the exclamation,

"A'n't these nets a blessed institution, Louise!"

"I straightened myself up to my full height, closed my lips firmly in imaginary dignity, to look as mature as possible. Tears, trouble, little food and less sleep, made me look two years older than I really was. I started at every ring at the door: it might be somebody to answer the advertisement."

"Did anybody answer the application?

"Yes; and the first lady said, in her sharp voice, sharp manner, I was too young. She looked at me with her sharp forehead, sharp eyes, sharp nose, sharp mouth, sharp chin, as if my youth was a crime. I was too blonde, too natural, or too youthful, to suit anybody that day, and I am sure nobody suited me; and everybody asked me that stale question, 'Have you ever taught before?' I had a good mind to put on my grandmother's spectacles and a wig, and try to look like the Sage, Experience herself, the next day. But I did n't feel like doing anything comical. I only cried myself to sleep that night. I was afraid I would n't get a good situation, and that I could n't fill it acceptably if I did; then I so dreaded teaching just yet. I much preferred studying more myself. I had n't yet recovered from the first stunning shock of grief. It was too soon to control self, face strangers, and brave circumstances. I knelt down that night and promised God, that, if He would work out for me a path, I would try to walk in it; but I earnestly prayed Him not to leave me to the sole guidance of my ignorant heart. I dreamed that night, that I held in my hand that little card I once got when a child at Sunday-school, the first verse I ever learned, and which I have never forgotten: 'In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths.' I awoke in the morning, so vivid was my dream, and looked eagerly for the card; but the card was not there, though the verse was in my heart clearer than ever. I shed no tears that morning; I kept thinking about the words on the card. The sun shone very bright; happy children were