me. What I have experienced since, words may never
tell; the young have deemed me impenetrable to the natural
susceptibilities of our natures, while the old have called me
trifling. But, Ella, depend upon it, a heart once truly given, can
never be bestowed again. I have erred in trying to conceal my history
in the manner I have. Instead of placing my dependance on the goodness
of the Most High, and seeking for that balm which heals the wounded
spirit, and acquiring a calmness of mind which would render me in a
measure happy, I plunged into the vortex of worldly pleasure. But it
is all over now; they say I have the consumption, and pity me, to
think one so joyous should have to die. To-day has been spent mostly
in meditation; and I have tried to pray that my Savior would give me
grace for a dying hour; and, Ella, will you kneel at my bedside and
pray as you used to, when a young, trembling girl?"

"Yes, I will pray for you again," said Ella; "but take this cordial to
revive your exhausted frame."

As the friend raised the refreshing draught, she marked such a change
in Mary's countenance, that her heart quailed at the thought of the
terrible vigil she was keeping, in the silence of night, alone. She
kneeled by the sick, and offered up her prayer with an energy unknown
to her before, such a one as a heart strong in faith, and nerved by
love and fear alone could dictate; a pleading, borne on high by the
angel of might, for the strengthening of the immortal soul in
prison-clay before her. There was a sigh and a groan; she rose hastily
and bent over the couch--there was a gasping for breath, and all was
still. Ella's desolate shriek of anguish first told the tale, that
Mary was dead.

Thus passed again to the Giver, a mind entrusted with high powers, and
uncontrolled affections, who, in the waywardness of youth, cast
unreservedly at the shrine of idolatrous love, her all of earthly
hopes, then wandered forth with naught but their ashes, in the
treasured urn of past remembrance, seeking to cover that with the
mantle of the world's glittering folly.

TO THE AUTHOR OF "THE RAVEN."

BY MISS HARRIET B. WINSLOW.

Leave us not so dark uncertain! lift again the fallen curtain!
Let us once again the mysteries of that haunted room explore--
Hear once more that friend infernal--that grim visiter nocturnal!
Earnestly we long to learn all that befalls that bird of yore:
Oh, then, tell us some