ized Mary Clinton,
when the loved form of the child of her heart had disappeared. "To
try to bless another, how richly does the blessing fall back upon my
own soul! Yes! I have my joys. Why am I ever so ungrateful as to
murmur at aught that befalls me? I am blest--a sunshine is breaking
over the tender earth for me; all clouds are gone." With feelings
much changed from what they were a few months previous, Mary Clinton
sought the window, and with loving and devoted eyes dwelt upon the
night and stillness of the heavens--so boundless and so pure. The
moon was full; near it was one bright cloud of silver drapery, upon
the edge of which rested a single star. "So shall it be with me,"
she murmured, "be the clouds that float over the heavens of my soul
bright or dark, the star of holy trust shall linger near, ever
bringing to my bosom--peace."

About two years after, on a winter evening, there was a large
company assembled at Mr. Clinton's dwelling. It was in compliment to
Alice, for that day completed her twentieth year. As she moved from
one spot to another, her sweet face radiant with happiness, Aunt
Mary's eyes followed her with a devoted expression, which betrayed
that the lovely being was her dearest earthly treasure. The merry
girl was now a glad-hearted, but thoughtful woman. An innocent
mirthfulness lingered around her, which time itself would never
subdue, except for a brief season, when her sweet laugh broke out
with a natural, rich suddenness; there was a catching joy in it,
that could not be withstood. She was the gentle hostess to
perfection; with tact enough to discover congenial spirits, and
bring them together, finding her own pleasure in the cheerful home
thus made. She possessed the rare but happy art of making every body
feel perfectly at home, one knew not why. For a moment, Alice stood
alone with her little hand resting upon the centre-table. Behind
her, two rather fashionable young men were talking and laughing
somewhat too loud, and jesting upon sacred things. A look of pain
passed over the face of the fair listener as she slowly turned
round, and said in a low but earnest tone, "Don't, Theodore! Excuse
me, but _such_ trifling pains me." The young gentlemen both appeared
mortified. "Pardon me! Alice," exclaimed Theodore Temple, "I will
try to break that habit for your sake. I was not aware that it
pained you so much--a lady's word is law!" and he bowed gallantly.

"No, no! Base your giving up of th