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 Elise. 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, "Elise with the angels!" and she
dwelt on 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 was to be earned. When he was
finishing the picture, Flora went alone. One day she returned, and
flinging into my lap her little green purse, she said:--'The picture
does not need me any more, and I am very glad, for my head aches badly.
They say the portrait is very like me, mother.'

"I resolved to go and see it the day following, but when the time came
that I first looked upon it, my dear child began to fade in my arms,
until she died. And here she is buried. Since then I go to