She had always a great fondness for such poetry as conveyed pious sentiments and enforced the shortness of life. It was peculiarly affecting to the heart of a mother who watched all these developments of mind with inexpressible interest, to find after her death the following lines in the pocket of one of her dresses, which she had worn at school during her last absence from the paternal roof.

AT MUSING HOUR.

BY T. WELLS.

At musing hour of twilight gray,
When silence reigns around,
I love to walk the churchyard way:
To me 'tis holy ground.

To me, congenial is the place
Where yew and cypress grow;

I love the moss-grown stone to trace
That tells who lies below.

And as the lonely spot I pass

Where weary ones repose,
I think, like them, how soon, alas,
My pilgrimage will close.

Like them, I think, when I am gone,
And soundly sleep as they,
Alike unnoticed and unknown

Shall pass my name away.

Yet, ah-and let me lightly tread-
She sleeps beneath this stone,

That would have soothed my dying bed,
And wept for me when gone.

Her image 'tis-to memory dear-
That clings around my heart,
And makes me fondly linger here,
Unwilling to depart.

From the conversation of those around her, she understood that her sister was ill. She anxiously requested her father to go immediately to her, and continued to inquire respecting her of every one who entered the room. When he returned to her bedside, he asked, "Shall I pray with you, my child?" She replied, "Not now, dear father; I have just been praying for myself." This was her last day on earth, Monday, Feb. 24, 1834.

Henrietta was taken suddenly ill on the Saturday night previous to the death of her sister. During the Sabbath, she scarcely left her bed. The next day the attack, which was violent bleeding at the nose, was repeated. It seemed to exhaust all her strength. Through the winter she had been bright and blooming, and worn the appearance of perfect health. Now

she was changed, as if the seal of death had been set upon her. As soon as she could move, she desired to be led to her sister's apartment. She was indulged. She stood close by her bed. They looked long and tenderly at each other. But they spoke not. Those who saw that fixed gaze, in which soul seemed to mingle with soul, can never forget it. It was the parting of the sisters. The scene cannot be described in words. Those affectionate beings realized that they were to meet no more on earth. Did their pale and beautiful lips exchange an unspoken promise, soon to meet in heaven?

The gentle and fragile Henrietta was led from the room of her dying sister. "She will soon be clothed in white robes, and strike a harp of gold," said she meekly. It was repeated to Margaret. Her reply was a look of inexpressible delight. For the few hours of life that remained to her, she lay tranquil and at peace. It would seem, from the brightness that passed over her countenance, that she was contemplating the bliss of angels. Those who best loved her, feared to interrupt the happiness of that holy vision. They left the

pure spirit free to converse with Him to whom it was ascending. It preferred to keep silence, and to pause from the language of earth ere it entered upon that full burst of melody which hath no end. That night it was said of her, in the whispered tones of her hushed apartment, and in bursts of grief that could not be controlled, She is dead. But was there not joy

in the court of heaven because another soul was added to its blissful company?

Many letters of condolence testified the sympathy of attached friends. Selections from

them would too much increase the size of this volume, and therefore one only is added, from a lady in a far distant state.

"MY DEAR FRIENDS-The sad intelligence of the early departure of your beloved child from this world, awakened my tender sympathy for you all, whom she has left to mourn.

"While my tears flowed at the perusal of the particulars of her sickness, I was soothed and comforted, as you all must be, in knowing that such sweet peace possessed her mind, and that she was enabled to bow so meekly to her heavenly Father's holy will. You do not need,

my bereaved friends, that I should direct your minds to the Source of all consolation in this season of deep affliction.

"I doubt not but your heart, amid all its agony, has been cheered by the rich consolations of our holy religion, that the kind hand of the Lord has been near to support you, and soften the severity of your bereavement. Have you not been filled with adoring gratitude towards our merciful heavenly Father for his great love and kindness to our dear Margaret, in leading her so gently and guiding her so tenderly to her home in heaven? For myself, I hardly know which feeling I should indulge, that of rejoicing with her emancipated spirit which has escaped all the sorrows of earth, and is participating in the high and holy enjoyments of the redeemed in heaven, or that feeling that would lead me to sit down and mourn with her dear parents and sister. I think you have every thing to comfort you in the thought that your loss is her eternal gain. Still, I know that your hearts will long bleed, and your tears often flow, that one you so much loved should die so soon. Dear Henrietta; my heart