revealed to me. I have no fear of it. I believe that
when I enter Paradise--and I cannot believe that its doors are for ever
closed against me--that in some way the lost love of my husband, the
misled affection of my child, will be made up to me. Heaven defrauds us
of nothing; and as we are created to love and be loved, is it not true
that there must be compensation somewhere if it is torn from us, or
denied to us?

"But be that as it may," she said, looking down upon her companion with
sad and tender eyes. "You are a woman, and I have a charge to give you.
I warn you, child, that your love to Heaven cannot be too strong; your
love for man too true; but while you give to man the sweetness and
comfort of your life, you must look to Heaven alone for faithfulness."

* * * * *

When the girl looked up again, the morning star shone over the sea, a
fresh wind blew out of the yellowing sky, but she was alone upon the
sands.

LOUISE STOCKTON.

ON BEING BORN AWAY FROM HOME.

Reading, the other day, in Mr. Stigand's interesting "Life of Heine,"
about the young poet's discontent in Germany, about his long desire
to quit that country and to live in France, and of his final hegira
to Paris, it occurred to me that he might be described, not too
fancifully, as having been born away from home. How many have had the
same fortune, whether for good or ill. But the happier class is the
contrasting one, that of persons who have never suffered from the
stress of the migrating instinct; and surely it is a fortunate thing to
be born in one's own place, as Lamb was born in London, to grow in the
fit soil, to lose no time in striking root. Lamb was the happiest of
men in this respect. A true child of the city, he held that London was
a better place to be born in than any part of the country. "A garden,"
he writes to Wordsworth, "was the primitive prison, till man, with
Promethean boldness and felicity, luckily sinned himself out of it."
For _garden_ if we read _farm_ in this passage, we have, perhaps,
a statement of the feeling which prompts our own country people, and
more and more with successive years, to leave the country and come to
the city--to crowd the towns and desert the fields. Lamb says
again--and one almost trembles to see him thus defying the "poet of
nature" to his face--"Separate from the pleasure of your company, I
don't much care if I never see a mountain in my life.... I