t long he sat in the room, occasionally looking into her face,
and feeling if there was any pulsation in her heart. The next morning
when one of his friends arrived, just before daylight, he was nearly
speechless and utterly unconsolable, looking twenty years older.

There was no banquet that day in Nashville. On the morning of the
funeral, the grounds were crowded with people, who saw, with emotion,
the poor old general supported to the grave between two of his old
friends, scarcely able to stand. The remains were interred in the garden
of the Hermitage, in a tomb which the general had recently completed.
The tablet which covers her dust contains the following inscription:

"Here lie the remains of Mrs. Rachel Jackson, wife of President Jackson,
who died the 22nd of December, 1828, aged 61. Her face was fair, her
person pleasing, her temper amiable, her heart kind; she delighted in
relieving the wants of her fellow-creatures, and cultivated that divine
pleasure by the most liberal and unpretending methods; to the poor she
was a benefactor; to the rich an example; to the wretched a comforter;
to the prosperous an ornament; her piety went hand in hand with her
benevolence, and she thanked her Creator for being permitted to do good.
A being so gentle and so virtuous, slander might wound but not dishonor.
Even death, when he tore her from the arms of husband, could but
transport to the bosom of her God."

Andrew Jackson was never the same man again. During his presidency he
never used the phrase, "By the Eternal," nor any other language which
could be considered profane. He mourned his wife until he himself
rejoined her in the tomb he had prepared for them both.

Of all the blessed things below
To hint the joys above,
There is not one our hearts may know
So dear as mated love.

It walks the garden of the Lord,
It gives itself away;
To give, and think not of reward,
Is glory day by day.

And though sometimes the shadows fall,
And day is dark as night,
It bows and drinks the cup of gall,
But gives not up the fight.

For One is in the union where
The _mine_ is ever _thine_,
Whose presence keeps it brave and fair,
A melody divine.

* * * * *

L.

DISCONTENTED GIRLS.

ONE PANACEA FOR THEM--AND ONE REFUGE.

Not every girl is discontented, nor are any wretched all the time. If
they were,