part of his face, scarcely indicating the great suffering through which he had passed. Lieut. Glenstein was on the staff of Gen. Woolston, and died October from a wound received while rushing upon the enemy, and achieved a brilliant feat of successful daring.

A reconnoissance was made by a party of cavalry. Suddenly they came upon an overpowering force of the enemy. The enemy's officer, confused by the sudden apparition, did n't know to which party the men before him belonged, - to his own side, or to the United States. He rode up within speaking distance, and said, "Whose troops are you?" Lieut. Glenstein, ever vigilant at post of danger, answered, " Union." Two shots were heard: one carried death to the enemy's officer, the other has placed Lieut. Glenstein in an early tomb.

The chaplain, who read the service over the body, said Lieut. Glenstein was the only one of their number who had fallen like a martyr for a good cause; and received the last services of the Church at his hands. The regiment paid him the last honors of a soldier's career.

The coffin bore this inscription :

LIEUT. ARTHUR GLENSTEIN.

U.S. VOLUNTEERS,

Died, February 4th, 1862.

On its lid was the sword of the deceased, and the sword he captured from the enemy's officer who gave him his deathwound. After the service for the dead, the coffin was conveyed to the hearse, escorted by Company G, followed by carriages containing friends, and proceeded to Green wood. The band of the regiment played solemn martial music along the course, till the coffin, placed in a case, was deposited in the receivingvault of the cemetery. The comrades of Lieut. Glenstein then closed on the portals, and fired three vollies in honor of the fallen hero.

Lieut. Glenstein was born in Philadelphia, July 8th, 1884, was educated partly in France, where he resided six years, and afterwards completed a course of law and science in Harvard University. He was a young man of uncommon worth and genius.

As I laid the fair, fragile wreaths and crosses of snowy flowers on the coffin-lid, I could n't help thinking how many,

many flowers those still, folded hands had planted in my lonely life.

Poor old Mrs. Glenstein, Arthur's mother, sits alone in her arm-chair, with Arthur's Bible open in her hands. It is her last, her only comfort now. Her soul must still march along life's tragic, tearful battle-field, in its fatigue-dress, till she reaches the celestial fields and wins the immortal honors of the victorious Christian soldier. She turns over the leaves and reads this verse, "Man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets." She reads the 12th chapter of Ecclesiastes, Arthur has marked the verse, "Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return to God who gave it." She reads each verse that Arthur has marked, as she turns over the leaves, and a tear falls on each word. She comes to this passage, which he has marked all round with a pencil. On one side of the verse is written the word "Mother," and on the other the day of the month, Feb. 3d. It was only the day before he died. It was the last trace of his hand, the last verse he ever read: "Thou wilt show me the path of life; in thy presence is fulness of joy; at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore." The words are a sweet drop of comfort to her lonely soul; she closes the book, and says over and over to herself," Pleasures for evermore; dear, dear boy, that is more than I could ever give him." A sweet, calm smile, like hallowed sunshine, beams on her face as she says, "It is well with the child,

it is well."

I come back from Arthur's funeral, and I take up the evening paper and I read : "The day of the execution has passed. Gen. Emberton was found lying on his bed very early that morning, dead. Death was peaceful and natural. There was no violence, no suicide. The haunted and grief-worn soul was unable longer to sustain its heavy load of anguish."

"It was disease of the heart," said the physician. We knew he had such a disease. He had apparently died without a struggle. The miniatures were on the bed beside him, open; there was a smile on the lips, and the Bible lay open on the pillow, open at the 121st Psalm, where I had turned down the leaf; the words were marked, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills whence cometh my help." There was a pencil in the open Bible. Poor, weary soul! it had climbed the eternal hills at last, and was basking now in immortal dawn.

Annie Emberton is insane. Her insanity takes this most distressing type. She fancies she has done something terrible, disgraceful, for which she must hide from every eye. Her grief is heart-aching to witness. While I sit sadly thinking of her there comes a letter from Mildred.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

IRDENHURDEN.

"One that was never thought of hath worn the crown."- ECCLESIASTICUS xi. 5.

❝IRDENHURDEN, September 15th.

“I THOUGHT, Louise, I would get a bouquet, the prettiest I could find, and send to the Doctor's wife; and one afternoon, quite late, Margaret took it round, and gave it to the lady herself. You know Margaret always goes off in such raptures about that fair, tidy little woman, so much like you, Louise. The bouquet had n't been gone long (it was just about twilight, when all the shadows come,) when some one knocked gently, and I, thinking it was Jane, said, 'Come in ;' but it was not Jane. There was a tall shadow just behind, and then in front of me. No other manly step ever came so silently. It was the Doctor, with those flowers in his hand. The bright fire in the grate shed such a glow on his face, there was a softer, sweeter radiance in his eye, a brighter flush on his cheek than I had ever seen before. I have come to bring back the flowers,' he said. 'I could not keep them; they were sent to the Doctor's wife. I have searched through every recess and nook in parlor, chamber, and kitchen. I cannot find her there. She is so ethereal and shadowy she escapes me whenever I try to grasp her; if I try to take her hand I only clasp a shadow. I have looked for her for years, at dawn and sunset, through city and country. She has always escaped me. I am weary and tired of journeying after her, and more weary and lonely of journeying without her. I have come here to see if you can't help me find her. I have hoped a long time that you might surely help me find her. These flowers are so beautiful I wish I could give them to her before they wither. Mildred, there is no one but you can find the gentle, loving, lovely Doctor's wife. Won't you take the flowers and give them to her? Will you tell her that no hand but hers can plant flowers in my whole life? that

her love would be the fairest flower in my heart, the violet, the fadeless heart's-ease of my life forever? Tell her our voices chord, and I believe our souls would chord in sweet unison.' He took my hand and said, 'Mildred, will you keep the flowers? poor little, lone lamb! how my heart ached for you once, how I longed to take you and shield you from the least rough wind; but I could not take advantage of your helplessness and solitude, and seek then to gather and garner you into the fold of my heart; and since then you are so enwrapt in the mantle of reserve, I feared you could not love me; that your love was too bright, too good for me; but to-night I have come in spite of better judgment to tell you how my heart hungers for your love. It needs no less, it could n't ask for more. Will you keep the flowers and let me

find the Doctor's wife?'

"Louise, you know how I have almost worshipped the man; that were the universe of good and gifted manhood kneeling at my feet, I would turn from them all, to the priceless treasure, the rich mine of his great heart. I would rather die for him than live for any other. As he stood there, with his earnest words, eloquent eyes, and radiant face, through my glad soul such music thrilled,

a

it was such a sweet surprise, it was like a jubilant anthem from some unseen choir on some sweet Sabbath of rest, beautiful, perpetual rainbow had spanned my spirit's sky from which no shower had fallen, no storm had swept. It was a rainbow without a cloud or shower, a triumphal, glorious arch over the gateway of the soul, through which young Love, wreathed and robed and crowned, might pass safely, joyously! Yes, I am to be the Doctor's wife. I took those flowers and I cried as if my heart would break for joy. I have cried alone so many times. I am as proud now as if I were to be crowned queen of the United Kingdom to-morrow; for the love of such a right-royal heart is the most rare, regal, and radiant crown a woman's brow can ever wear. I would rather be his wife, resting in the shadow of his love, than rule and reign in Fame's clearest sky, with Sappho's wreath on my head, and Orpheus' lyre in my hand. I suppose I was reserved in my manner to the Doctor, though I was never embarrassed. I met his eye frankly and fearlessly, for between myself and him I knew fate had fixed an impassable, hopeless barrier, that little blonde lady Margaret always called the Doctor's wife. She is only his sister, after all. She has been engaged three years, and is waiting for the Doctor's wife to come before he will let her go. But I always knew, from the time he