ess of purest
light, the Soul again shrank back into itself. It seemed to be falling
an infinite depth; the celestial music grew fainter and fainter, till
common earthly sights and sounds dispelled the vision. The rays of the
early morning sun falling full on his face, the cheerful crow of the
vigilant cock, called the sleeper up to pray.

Inexpressibly humbled, yet thankful, he arose and knelt beside his bed.
"Thou, who hast shown me to myself, help me now, that I may not only do
justly, but love mercy, and walk humbly with my God. Thou, who hast
convicted me of sin, now purify me, strengthen me, that, though ever
unworthy of Thy presence, I may yet, supported by Thy Love, dare to
ascend into Thine ever lasting light!"

The Vision was his; be the lesson, the prayer, also ours.

THE OLD GRAVESTONE

By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

In one of our small trading towns, at that time of year when folk say
"The evenings grow long," a whole family was assembled together. The air
was still mild and warm; the lamp was lighted, the long curtains hung
down before the windows, and bright moonlight prevailed without. They
were talking about a big old stone that lay down in the yard, close by
the kitchen door, where the servants often placed the kitchen utensils,
after they had been cleaned, to dry in the sun, and where the children
were fond of playing; it was, in fact, an old gravestone.

"Yes," said the master of the house, "I believe it comes from the old
ruined convent chapel; pulpit and gravestones, with all their epitaphs,
were sold; my late father bought several of these; the others were
broken into paving-stones, but this one was left unused, lying in the
yard."

"It is easy to know it for a gravestone," said the eldest of the
children. "You can still see on it an mountain-sides and a piece of an
angel, but the inscription is almost quite worn out, except the name
'Preben,' and a capital 'S' a little further on, and underneath it
'Martha,' but it is impossible to make out any more, and that you can
only read after if has been raining, or when we have washed it."

"Why, then, it must be the gravestone of Preben Swan and his wife!"
exclaimed an old man, who by his age might appear the grandfather of
everybody in the room. "To be sure, they were among the last that were
buried in the old convent churchyard--the grand old couple! Everybody
knew them, everybody loved them; they were like king and queen in the
town. Fo