or the first time almost since
she had known Wentworth.

She seemed revived in the morning, and Mrs. Grey's hopes rose again,
but only to be dashed once more forever.

The iron had eaten too deeply in her soul. Pauline's slight frame had
no power of renovation. The spirit seemed to grow brighter and
brighter as she wasted away. Unutterable love and gratitude looked out
from her eyes, as she turned them from her father and mother,
alternately; but she was too weak to say much, and gently thus she
faded away to fall asleep upon earth, awakening a purified and
regenerated spirit in heaven.

Her's was "a broken and a contrite heart," and of such is the kingdom
of heaven.

* * * * *

Could mortal agony such as Mr. Grey's be added to, as he followed his
idolized child to the grave?

Yes--even there something was to be added--for Wentworth, as chief
mourner, stepped forward and offered his arm to the unhappy father,
which, even at that moment, and in that presence, Mr. Grey could not
help shaking off.

* * * * *

And what have this childless, broken-hearted couple left of their
beautiful daughter?

A picture--delicate and lovely in its lineaments, but

"To those who see thee not, my words are weak,
To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak."

The canvas must fail in the life-speaking eye; and exquisite though
the pictured image be, oh! how cold to those who knew and idolized the
beautiful original.

Heaven help you, unhappy parents! Your all was wrecked in that one
frail bark. Though friends may sympathize at first, yet they will grow
weary of your grief--for such is human nature. God comfort you! for
there is no earthly hope for those who have lost their only child.

SONNET.--TO A MINIATURE.

Image of loveliness! in thee I view
The bright, the fair, the perfect counterpart,
Of that which love hath graven on my heart.
In every lineament, to nature true,
Methinks I can discern _her_ spirit through
Each feature gleaming; soft, serene and mild,
And gentle as when on me first she smiled,
Stirring my heart with passions strange and new.
Would that my tongue could celebrate the praise
Of thy divine original, or swell
The general chorus, or in lofty lays
Of her celestial grace and beauty tell,
But fancy flutters on her unplumed wing,
None but an angel's harp, an angel's praise shou