rus to the thoughts we had been uttering. It reminded me of
the song of the morning stars, the anthem of the angels over the manger
of Bethlehem,--so highly wrought were my feelings,--so softly, with such
swelling harmony, had the notes stolen on the ear.

Ernest raised himself from his reclining position, and his countenance
glowed with rapture. I had never seen it wear such an expression before.
"Old things had passed away,--all things had become new."

"There is peace,--there is pardon," said he, in a voice too low for any
ear but mine, when the last strain melted away,--"there is joy in heaven
over the repenting sinner, there is joy on earth over the returning
prodigal."

CONCLUSION

Two years and more have passed since my heart responded to the strains
of the _Gloria in Excelsis_, as sung by Edith on the night of her
brother's return.

Come to this beautiful cottage on the sea-shore, where we have retired
from the heat of summer, and you can tell by a glance whether time has
scattered blossoms or thorns in my path, during its rapid flight.

Come into the piazza that faces the beach, and you can look out on an
ocean of molten gold, crimsoned here and there by the rays of the
setting sun, and here and there melting off into a kind of burning
silver. A glorious breeze is beginning to curl the face of the waters,
and to swell the white sails of the skiffs and light vessels that skim
the tide like birds of the air, apparently instinct with life and
gladness. It rustles through the foliage, the bright, green foliage,
that contrasts so dazzlingly with the smooth, white, sandy beach,--it
lifts the soft, silky locks of that beautiful infant, that is cradled so
lovingly in my father's arms. Oh! whose do you think that smiling cherub
is, with such dark, velvet eyes, and pearly skin, and mouth of heavenly
sweetness? It is mine, it is my own darling Rosalie, my pearl, my
sunbeam, my flower, my every sweet and precious name in one.

But let me not speak of her first, the youngest pilgrim to this sea-beat
shore. There are others who claim the precedence. There is one on my
right hand, whom if you do not remember with admiration and respect, it
is because my pen has had no power to bring her character before you, in
all its moral excellence and Christian glory. You have not forgotten
Mrs. Linwood. Her serene gray eye is turned to the apparently
illimitable ocean, now slowly rolling and deeply murmuring, as if its
m