you by the evil spirit, Eliot? I sometimes fear

so.

I used to love our overkind mother, and for our little brothers and sisters my heart did seem to be one fountain of love, ever sweet, fresh, and overflowing; and you, O Eliot, how fondly, proudly I loved you! And now, if I were to see you all dead before me, it would move me no more than to see the idle leaves falling from the trees."

"I have read your letters over and over again, till they have fallen to pieces with the continual dropping of my hot tears; but every syllable is imprinted on my heart. You did not believe your sister would waste her sensibility, the precious food of life, in moping melancholy.' Oh, Eliot, how much better must I have appeared to you than I was! I have been all my

life a hypocrite. You believed my mind had a self-rectifying power,' and I imposed this belief on you! I am ready, now, to bow my head in the dust for it. Love,' said your letter, can never be incurable when it is a disease; that is o say, when its object is unworthy.' Ah, my dear brother, there was your fatal mistake. It was I that was unworthy-it was your simple sister that, in her secret, unconfessed thoughts, believed he loved her, knowing all the while that his lot was cast with the high, the gifted, the accomplished-with such as Isabella Linwood, and not with one so humble in condition, so little graced by art, as I am. I do not blame him. Heaven knows I do not. • Self-rectifying power!' Eliot, talk to the reed, that has been uprooted and borne away by the tides of the ocean, of its self-rectifying power !'

A long interval had elapsed after writing the above, and the subsequent almost illegible scraps indicated a mind in ruins.

"Oh, Eliot, pray-pray come home! They are all persecuting me. The children laugh at me, and whistle after me; and when I am asleep, they blow his name in my ears. Mother looks at me, and will not speak."

They have printed up all the books. Even the Bible has nothing but his name from beginning to end. I can never be alone; evil spirits are about me by day and by night. My brother, I am tormented."

“Eliot, my doom is spoken! Would that it were to cut down the cumberer of the ground!

But no! I am to stand for ever on the desolate shore, stricken and useless, and see the river of life glide by. The day, as well as the night, is solitary, and there is no joyful voice therein.”

66

Oh, memory!—memory !-memory! what an abyss of misery art thou! The sun rises and sets-the moon rolls over the sky-the stars glide on in their appointed paths-the seasons change, but no change cometh to me-the past, the past is all—there is no present, no future!

"I remember hearing Dr. Wilson preach about sin deserving infinite punishment, because it was against an Infinite Being. I did not comprehend him then-now I do. In vain I raise my faded eyes and fevered hands to God.”

The remainder was written in a more assured

and rapid hand.

"Eliot, you have seen those days, have you not? when clouds gathered over the firmament; when, one after another, each accustomed and dear object was lost in their leaden folds, when they grew darker and came nearer, till you felt yourself wrapped about in their chilling drapery, and you feared the blessed sun was blotted out of Heaven. Suddenly God's messenger hath come forth-the clouds have risen at his bidding, and unveiled his beautiful works. The smiling waters and the green fields, one after another, have appeared-the silvery curtain has rolled up the mountain's side, and then melted away and left the blue vault spotless. Such darkness has oppressed me; such brightness is now above and around me. Dear Eliot, how glad you