and so fondly
loved, would fill a murderer's grave, and she would look upon his face
no more. She knew that it was appointed for all to "pass through the
dark valley of the shadow of death," but what a horrible, detestable,
and ignominious death was his! Could it be true? Was he--her son, in
the prime of manhood and enjoyment--the life-blood coursing freely and
strongly throughout his system--unshattered by disease--to die--to be
a sport for the winds--to hang--ay--ay--to hang!--to be cut down--to
be thrust into the coffin, blackened, distorted, and hideous, the rope
still around his neck--to be laid in the ground with infamy around his
name--to rot--to be a banquet for the worms? Horror of horrors! She
would not believe it! Surely it was a dream!

Thus that agony-fraught night lapsed away, and the morning, which,
from the birth of creation, has never failed, dawned once more--dawned
as it ever dawns, bright, glorious, and magnificent, bearing the
impress of a mighty God. That morning witnessed a terrible--a horrible
scene. Another human being took his exit from the transitory splendors
of this decaying world, and entered upon the untried and unimaginable
realities of a futurity, whose secrets none can ever know until the
silver chord is loosened, and the golden bowl is broken. Upon what
state of existence David White entered when eternity closed its
everlasting portals, and the enfranchised spirit went up to the
Eternal Judge, it is not for me to say. God is just, and whatever was
apportioned, it was good and right. Let it suffice to know, that, be
his doom what it may, it is irrevocable--sealed forever.

From that eventful day, Widow White became thinner and paler, and the
expression of her countenance was that of a strong heart in ruins, and
with its energies prostrated. Three weeks went by, and she, too, was
gone. They carried her out from the desolate homestead, and laid her
cold remains beneath the grassy sod, where neither the war of the
elements, nor of human passions could ever disturb her more. Since
then many years have lapsed away into the dim and shadowy past, and
now, a sunken grave alone marks the last resting-place of Widow
White--the victim of a broken heart, and of her own injudicious
education of a son in his infancy and boyhood.

THE REAL AND THE IDEAL.

BY MARION H. RAND.

Alas, the romances! the beautiful fancies!
We fling round our thoughts of a poet;
How can we belie