I only cared to live that I might be useful to her in
giving her such instructions as might be a blessing to her. I almost
adored her, but she is gone from me, and I am alone. I know she is
happy, because she was good."

"And have you always lived here in our town?" asked Julia.

"Oh, no! I am from Italy. When my child was but two years old, I left
my native shores, and with my only relative, my father, followed my
young husband, who is an American, to his own land. We settled in the
State of Virginia, and a short time ago he died and left me with a
charge to take care of our dear Elsie. She had her father's hair and
complexion, and inherited his delicate constitution, We were poor, and
I labored hard, but I cared not, if I could only make my child
comfortable and happy. She was not like me; her mind was full of
thoughts of beauty; she would often talk of things with which I could
not sympathize; the world seemed to her to be full of voices, and she
would often say, 'How beautiful _heaven_ must be.' Her nature was
purer and gentler than mine, and I felt that she was a fit companion
of the angels. But she is now gone to be with them, and I hope soon to
meet her."

Julia bid the lady good bye, and went towards her home. As she walked
slowly along, she thought to herself, "Elsie with the angels!" and she
dwelt upon the theme till her mother, seeing her rather different in
her conduct, asked her the cause, when she replied, "Oh, mother! I
want to dwell with the angels."

* * * * *

FLORA AND HER PORTRAIT.

"And was there never a portrait of your beautiful child," said Anne
Jones, to a lady whom she met at the grave where her child had been
lain a few weeks.

"Oh, yes! but I may never have it," replied the woman as she stood
weeping at the grave.

Anna did not understand the mother's tears, but in a few moments she
became calm, and continued to explain.

"Not many weeks before my child's illness, as we were walking together
in the city, an artist observed my daughter and followed us to our
humble home. He praised her countenance to me, and said her beauty was
rare. In all his life he had never seen face to compare with it, nor
an eye so full of soul, and begged to have me consent to his drawing
her portrait. After many urgent entreaties, my dear child consented.
For several mornings I went with Flora to the artist's room, though I
could ill afford the time, for our daily bread