"Dorset, March 9th, 1835. "DEAR M.: I am not, for once, the naughty girl you think me. If I could be so bad, I should indeed deserve a severe punishment, almost as bad as that you were half-disposed to inflict. It was the middle of 'next week' before your letter reached me; and I am now writing by the very first mail. So have I not done the best I could, and may I not claim the promised absolution? It will really be quite an affair to get all that old score cancelled.

"But why should it take so long for a letter to reach Dorset?' I will tell you. The post-office folks, in their late retrenchments, have taken away all our mails but two in a week. All we can do is to bear it. The GREAT PEOPLE do as they please with such as me. * * * *

*

* * * " Perhaps it would be best to tell J. what sort of a place he is coming to, lest he should be taken by surprise with its stillness. Tell him, when there is nothing else to do, he can find plenty of mountains to climb, or may occasionally have the pleasure of shooting a bear or a wolf that happens to come in his way.

"Please to bring anything you have that is good to read. It will come in requisition."

Once more, and, as it proved, for the last time, her friend was welcomed to the pleasant parsonage in the quiet valley. A gradual change was passing over them both. The bright coloring of romance, which had arrayed the future in enchantment, was fast fading into the sober hues of reality. They had begun to realize that life is a school, a severe one to those who have not learned submission to its requisitions, and gained improvement from its teachings. From this necessary discipline Henrietta suffered keenly. But, although in her correspondence there sometimes escaped her words savoring of recklessness, yet, even in her "strange moods," as she was wont to call them, she was too true-hearted a Christian not to struggle against

the gloom which overshadowed her path. Although suffering for want of the invigorating influence of active employment, at times she manifested a sweet cheerfulness, or a glad exuberance of spirits, soon, however, chastened by her touching melancholy. Hers was "a tearful grace," as though she stood "between the

rainbow and the sun."

As her friend returned over those hills, her heart lingered with the dear one behind, so pure in her aspirations, so gifted for usefulness, so strictly conscientious, so sincerely religious, yet so saddened by her views of self, and the want of some ennobling object of pursuit. For a spirit so burdened, there is light, there is healing, only with Him who can be "touched with the feeling of our infirmities."

"Thou who didst sit on Jacob's well

The weary hour of noon,

The languid pulses thou canst tell,
The nerveless spirit tune.

Thou, from whose cross in anguish burst

The cry that owned thy dying thirst,
To thee we turn, our last and first,
Our Sun and soothing Moon."

VISITS.-A WINTER OF DISCIPLINE.

"Lie not down wearied 'neath woe's weeping willow;
Work, and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work-thou shalt ride over care's coming billow."
MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

FROM the subjoined letter, we see that, although Henrietta's mind had not recovered its tone, yet she shows a consciousness of the nature of her disease, and of the needed remedy. The letter is addressed to her sister E., then expecting to go on a mission to Africa, but afterwards prevented by ill health.

"Dorset, May 9th, 1835.

"Do you remember twenty-four years ago, to-day? (Her birth-day.) How those years have changed me! And what are our years, when we look back upon them? What have mine been, but a succession of days and hours, filled up with trifles scarcely worth remembering?

'O! count by virtues; these shall last

When this short, weary race is o'er ;
And these, when all life's scenes are past,
May cheer us on a brighter shore.'

"How few virtues could I count! How few temptations have been resisted! How little of self-denial have I practised! How little of real happiness have I ever found! So little, that I would not retrace the way, if it must be by the same steps. I have indeed known many pleasures, but they were pleasures for which I can feel no sympathy now; the results of an illusion that has vanished away. And shall I keep on wasting life, till its energies are all spent upon solicitudes unworthy an immortal spirit? I don't like to think

so, and yet I fear it. The spell has been broken only from the past. It still holds its power over the future, ready to gild any of its pleasures, and magnify them into objects worthy of pursuit. It is only when they are reached or past that I shall see them as they are. I am making too little of my life; I know it and feel it too sometimes. How could you be making more of yours than to be a missionary to Africa? It seems so as if a missionary might get away beyond all ambitious motives, and labor purely for the sake of doing good, that I should almost like to go myself. And yet I know that a proud heart and an indolent nature may be carried to Africa as well as elsewhere. I feel but little confidence in my own desires to go. I am afraid the romance of the thing would be most attractive to me. Love to Christ is, I know, the only safe motive. If you feel this leading you, there is nothing to fear. It will inspire you with all the strength you can need in any emergency. But, though I can say go, my feelings about it are not all glad ones. It is a great thing to leave one's home for aye. It is a great thing, too, to have a part in the rewards of the missionary's labors. I wish I could feel more as you write, and I should be doing more where I am, or anywhere. I feel no impulse to act, and so I do nothing, and say nothing, while others around me are feeling, doing and saying.

"I am not such an ingrate, sister E., that I can be insensible to a generosity that gives three letters for one. It is, to be sure, a generosity quite superior to anything I have ever practised; still, placing the value I do upon letters, I can tell something how to appreciate it.

66

'My hydrangea is growing as fast as it can, with so little sunshine. Most of my flowers have perished of the last winter's cold. The vine-rose is dead. Will you bring me another? My flowers are about all the society I have. Tell brother my vanity has not suffered at all from his compliment about the letter. To say it was the best, was not saying much, after all."

Early in the spring of the following year, Henrietta

and her friend M. met in the place where their acquaintance was first formed. Here a few letters were exchanged. From the extracts given, it is evident that Henrietta was still under the cloud. Besides, she suffered -as one of reserved manners, yet acute sensibilities, almost invariably suffers from the feeling of being misunderstood.

"Andover, West Parish, Tuesday morning.

"I don't know that you will believe me, M., but I was going to write before your letter came. I wanted to tell how you It was such an the sight of your countenance has revived me. exhilarating stimulus as my poor, broken spirits have not known these many months. I can almost think this dismal wintry world looks pleasant. I can almost believe now that it will be warm and green again.

66

The last has indeed been a sadly sober season to me. The chill has reached my heart. But it is beginning to thaw out, and I am anticipating the time when its pulses shall be as glad and free as ever. M. has come. I have seen her face, and shall see it again; and then all that talk. How can I wait so long? We will have weeks of talking and reading and enjoying. But, remember, I shall claim part here, where nobody comes to interrupt good times. You see I keep my old notions, notwithstanding the change of place. And so you think I have not mended my manners much? I tell you, M., it is a hopeless case. I don't mean to try any more. Why not just as well pass for an iceberg, since you know you are not one? Some people would think you must have penetrated to great depth, to have discovered warmth. There are more things in the soul than are dreamed of by everybody. Chills sometimes indicate fever, as well as freezing. But I can't stop to philosophize this morning. *

*

* *

it is too bad.

** I don't blame you for being vexed, But, if you have fallen into the hands of this story-telling world, you need not expect any mercy. Of course I 1id not believe it.