pains. Why can't we have just such a lovely
cemetery? I will tell you more about it, and some of the pretty
monuments, when I return.

You should have seen David and I dining together at the Tremont to-day,
quite like two young gentlemen; for brother was invited out, and he
begged David to take his place. I must own that my friend's house at
Marblehead was rather a shabby old affair, and he has been brought up in
the plainest way; yet he does not show the least awkwardness at our
elegant table, but has the air of one quite accustomed to luxury. He
handles a silver fork with the greatest freedom, takes the name of every
dish readily from the bill of fare, and orders the waiters round as if
they were his own particular servants, only in such a conciliatory way,
that they seem delighted to do any thing for him.

On Sunday morning we went to a Swedenborgian church, which is one of the
most beautiful buildings in the city. It has a large window of stained
glass at one end, of such a color that it makes every thing look as if
the light of the setting sun was falling upon it. There was a curious
sort of tower opposite this window, with a kind of niche in it for a
large Bible, which the minister took out with the greatest reverence,
and he read from it all the prayers and psalms which were used. I liked
the service very well, but, of course, I prefer our own.

In the afternoon, David took me to Trinity Church, and I was perfectly
delighted to hear our dear liturgy again, after being so long deprived
of it. Some of the people did not kneel down, but I could not help doing
it, for my heart was so full.

Just as we were coming out of church, I observed one of the sweetest
young ladies that I ever saw, who looked as if she had been crying,
and yet there was a happy smile on her face. I was wondering why she
looked so familiar to me, when she said, in a perfectly musical voice,
to some one near her,--"Is it not delightful to worship God with his own
chosen people once more?"

I turned to see who she thus addressed, and, notwithstanding the change
in his dress, at once recognized Richard Colman. I cannot describe to
you the joy I felt at finding him thus restored to his sister. Before I
thought that I was among strangers, I flew to his side, and
exclaimed,--"O, I am so glad that you have got your sister! I hope you
will never leave her again."

"He never will," Miss Louisa replied; for poor Dick was too much
overcome by the su