not asked. But there are those who can understand her feelings a poor, single-hearted girl, who had no one to whom she could turn for that encouragement she so much needed, now that she was more than ever alone in the world,—and alone with declining health, added to disappointed affections ; for I cannot disguise it from myself now, any more than I could then, that she had suffered her young heart to dwell upon me too often and too tenderly. And why should she not? I was the only one she had ever found who could and did constantly sympathize with her. There is a time when the young heart suddenly awakes to consciousness, and awakes with bewildering joy, or to sadness and deep despondency. Ellen had thus awakened, and-to misery.

I replied not to her last sorrowful remark, but offered her my hand to assist her in rising; and then we both turned towards home, just as the sun had cast his last smile over the earth. We said little by the way. But we thought, perhaps, as we had never thought before.

I did not fail to call and see Ellen as often as ever; and she was ever as glad when I came. Steadily from morning until late at night she plied her needle, even though she had received many sad tokens of failing health. But in the latter part of this summer she was attacked with fainting fits whenever she over-exerted herself, and had of necessity to relax in her industry. By this time she had been enabled to earn herself a tolerable good supply of comfortable and respectable clothing, and as she had a very neat figure, and what I would call a handsome face, she made quite an attractive appearance. But she had yet been able to lay by nothing and was not unfrequently so ill as to cause her to keep her

bed for a day or two. Consequently, she earned but little more than would pay for her board, and sometimes not that. The woman with whom she boarded, finding her health declining, and fearing that she would become burdensome, began to treat her so unkindly as to cause her to change her boarding house. This she bore patiently for awhile, but being confined to her bed for a week with the pain in her side, this woman became so insolent and cruel, as to determine her to change so soon as she was able to go out. The next week she got herself another boarding house, with a kind widow lady whom I had long known, and who I knew would be as a mother to Ellen. She was four dollars behind in her board when she went away, to secure which the unfeeling woman detained a fine merino shawl which had cost twenty dollars.

with

She soon however obtained her shawl, for Mrs. whom she now lived, learning that it was in possession of her former landlady, went immediately and redeemed it. This change had a salutary effect upon Ellen's spirits, and of course, temporarily upon her health. Mrs. R was indeed as a mother to her, and Ellen repaid her with more than a daughter's love and gratitude. But when once that fell destroyer, consumption, has been feeling around the vitals, there is little hope.

During the ensuing winter, her health declined very fast, and she was able to work but little over half of her time. But, work she felt that she must so long as she could hold up her head, for on no one but herself did she feel that she had any right to depend for support.

To visit her every Sunday, as well as through the week

whenever I could, had become a habit, and a habit that began to accord more and more with my feelings. So glad was she ever to see me, that my heart at last began to warm beneath her sweet smile, and to return her more than fraternal regard. A young girl's heart has quick instincts, and her's soon discovered that mine was more interested than it had once been. The light came back to her eye, and the gladness to her pale face, and her voice had something of its wonted tone. But it was not to last long. The worm in the bud had nearly done its fatal work, and the fair promise of life was soon to fail forever.

It now became my turn to suffer again as I had but a brief season before suffered. Ellen had become more to me than a sister, and I could not but see that her way to the tomb was a steep one, and the descent quick. I did not forget sweet Mary Williams. How could I? How can I even now? But Mary Williams was sleeping the long sleep of death. The rapid progress of disease, greatly accelerated by her constantly sitting over her work-for she would sew as long as she could hold up her head-soon prostrated her system, and she was laid upon that bed from which she was never to rise again; early in the spring, even before the earliest blossoms had been warmed into life by the genial sunshine. Spring soon passed into summer, while Ellen failed rapidly, and when the chill winds of October moaned through the leafless boughs, her hour came to die. Her last days had been rendered comfortable and she was able to look death in in the face without shrinking.

It was on a Sunday evening that she died. I had been sitting by her bedside all through the day, holding her hand,

cold and clammy with perspiration, though she was too weak, and too insensible to surrounding objects, to notice that I was near her. I cannot describe my feelings through all that day and night. I had but once before looked on death -the death of a dear one too-and that but for a few short

moments-now I looked upon the slow and regular progress of dissolution, until my feelings were strung to a painful intensity. The hour at length arrived, when the last struggle was to take place. I was still seated by her side and still holding her hand when the dreadful change passed over her. I looked upon the ghastly contortions of her face, the writhing and fearful play of the muscles about her neck, and heard the low strange moans of mortal agony. Spell-bound I gazed upon her face, and tightly held her cold hand, while the gasping breath went and came, and the faint pulses lingered in her veins. There were a few convulsive struggles for breath-a faint quivering of the muscles-the pulse stopt -went on stopt again-moved once, twice, and all was still. Oh, the desolation of that moment when we feel that one we loved has gone forever!

And thus died Ellen Filmore. Her lot was hard to be borne, and her journey through life a cheerless one-but there are hundreds around us as worthy and as neglected as she.

THE WATER SPIRIT.

BY MISS

ELISABETH

G.

BARBER.

SPIRIT! sweet spirit, of mountain and meadow,
Blessing of summer and joy of the May.
Singing in sunlight and sighing in shadow,
Soft is thy lay,

Floating with zephyr and sunshine away.

Where the green willows are mournfully bending,
Soft are thy melodies, tender and low

When thy bright waves, with the sunshine are blending,
Gaily they flow,

Singing and dancing, with smiles as they go.

Kissed by the moonlight and starlight so holy,
Then thou dost waken thy tenderest strain
Soft as Love's whisper, as gentle and lowly,
Floats its refrain,

Sweet as the dropping of summer night's rain.

Water! bright water! I joyously greet thee,
Thou in the gladness of earth hast a part,
Whether in sunlight or shadow I meet thee,
Welcome thou art,

Bringing a blessing and joy to my heart.