A half-hour passed away, and Lily had not returned to us. I began to be
alarmed, and my companions partook of my fears. Had she overheard us?
and, if so, what must that sensitive heart be suffering?

I went out to call her; but half way up the flight of stairs I saw the
letter from her father lying on the carpet, unopened, though it had been
torn from its envelope. I know not how I found my way up stairs, but I
stood by Lily's bed.

Merciful Heaven! what a sight was presented to my gaze. The white
covering was stained with blood, and from those cold, pale lips the
red drops were fast falling. Her eyes turned slowly till they rested on
mine. What a look was that! I see it now; so full of grief; so full
of reproach; and then they closed. I thought her dead, and my frantic
shrieks called my companions to her bedside. They aroused her, too, from
that swoon, but they did not awaken her to consciousness. She never more
turned a look of recognition on us, or seemed to be aware that we were
near her. Through all that night, so long and so full of agony to us,
she was murmuring, incoherently, to herself,

"They did not know I was dying," she would say; "that I have been dying
ever since I have been here! They have not dreamed of my sufferings
through these long months; I could not tell them, for I believed they
loved me, and I would not grieve them. But no one loves me--not one in
the wide world cares for me! My mother, you will not have forgotten your
child when you meet me in the spirit-land! Their loved tones made
me deaf to the voice which was calling to me from the grave, and the
sunshine of _his_ smile broke through the dark cloud which death was
drawing around me. Oh, I would have lived, but death, I thought, would
lose half its bitterness, could I breathe my last in their arms! But,
now, I must die alone! Oh, how shall I reach my home--how shall I ever
reach my home?"

Dear Lily! The passage was short; when morning dawned, she was _there._

HOW TO BE HAPPY.

A BOON of inestimable worth is a calm, thankful heart--a treasure that
few, very few, possess. We once met an old man, whose face was a
mixture of smiles and sunshine. Wherever he went, he succeeded in making
everybody about him as pleasant as himself.

Said we, one day,--for he was one of that delightful class whom
everybody feels privileged to be related to,--"Uncle, uncle, how _is_ it
that you contrive to be so happy? Why is your face so cheerful