weeks from
that time her sufferings ceased for ever. She was perfectly conscious
to within less than two hours before her death, and took an
affectionate leave of her mother and brother. Speech had been a
matter of difficulty for some time previous, her throat being greatly
affected by her malady; but she had, in consequence, learned to use
her fingers in the manner of the deaf and dumb, and almost the last
time they moved, it was to spell upon them feebly, "Though He slay me,
yet will I trust in Him."

She was buried in the cemetery of Frankfort, one side of which is set
apart for the people of her faith. The stone which marks the spot
bears upon it a butterfly and five stars, emblematic of the soul in
heaven, and beneath appears the inscription--

"Give her of the fruit of her hands, and let her own works praise
her in the gates."--Prov. ch. xxxi, v. 31.

And thus, 16th September, 1847, at the early age of thirty-one, Grace
Aguilar was laid to rest--the bowl was broken, the silver cord was
loosed. Her life was short and checkered with pain and anxiety,
but she strove hard to make it useful and valuable, by employing
diligently and faithfully the talents with which she had been endowed.
Nor did the serious view with which she ever regarded earthly
existence, induce her to neglect or despise any occasion of enjoyment,
advantage, or sociality which presented itself. Her heart was ever
open to receive, her hand to give.

Inasmuch as she succeeded to the satisfaction of her fellow beings,
let them be grateful; inasmuch as she failed, let those who perceive
it deny her not the meed of praise, for her endeavor to open the path
she believed would lead mankind to practical virtue and happiness, and
strive to carry out the pure philanthropic principles by which she was
actuated, and which she so earnestly endeavored to diffuse.

OCTOBER, 1849.

THE VALE OF CEDARS;

OR,

THE MARTYR.

CHAPTER I.

"They had met, and they had parted;
Time had closed o'er each again,
Leaving lone the weary hearted
Mournfully to wear his chain."--MS.

A deliciously cool, still evening, had succeeded the intense heat of a
Spanish summer day, throwing rich shadows and rosy gleams on a wild,
rude mountain pass in central Spain. Massive crags and gigantic trees
seemed to contest dominion over the path, if path it could be called;
where the traveller, if he would persist in going onwards, could only
make his