allowed to see. They are among us, and yet not of us. They have no affinity to earth save that of suffering. They develop human life without its evil: they illustrate only its beauty. Before wisdom becomes hard-eyed prudence, or the charms of unsuspecting affection degenerate into artificial smiles, Heaven bears away the uncontaminated spirit into an atmosphere of completest purity. What is there so consoling and yet so affecting, as the sight of a being, compounded of the soft affections, the keen discernment, the full-grown virtue of mature womanhood, with the suspicionless, undisguised and playful heart of children? Dickens has understood the true answer to this question else he would never have made his name immortal by the tears shed over the fortunes of little Nell, and Paul and Florence.

An examination of the fragments of Rebecca's paper, proved it to be a dirty piece of a ruled copy-book, covered over with the crookedest of writing, and being in substance only a ratification of a former agreement of the writer to play with Rebecca on the next Saturday afternoon. It was evidently what might have been easier said than written. It contained no thoughts "too big for utterance," and was palpably written only for the romance of a correspondence.

Next day, on returning to my room at an unusual hour, I found the heroine there. I was actually thrilled and abashed by her marvellous beauty. In reply to my very modest greeting, she courtesied and told me she was waiting to thank Mr. W, for the books he had been kind enough to lend her. I interrupted her pretty little expressions of gratitude, by telling her that I believed I had heard of her, and almost knew her. She blushed instantly. "How can you know me, sir," asked she softly.

66

With a

I told her interrogatively, what I had seen the day before. merry laugh she replied, "O yes, Burrall wrote me the note." (Burrall was a freckled, ill favored boy who lived next door.) He asked me to write notes-correspond, you know-with him, for fun, and I said I would. So yesterday, he put a note in the tree, but when I told mother about it last night. she said it was improper, and I told Burrall this morning that I could not answer his billet."

"Do you tell your mother everything ?" said I with a smile, halfguessing her answer.

"Why, of course she loves me so much, that I could not keep a secret from her. Besides, father is gone so much, that she has no one to talk with but me; so I tell her all about my lessons and the books I read, and the plays 1 have with Willie and the girls. O my dear, dear Mother!"

She said this with such sudden emotion, that it brought tears to her eyes.

"Bless you, sweet child!" I exclaimed involuntarily. It was the first and last benediction I ever felt paternal enough to utter aloud. I have

felt many.

Pursuing the conversation in such a manner as to win her confidence, I at last received reluctantly her good-bye, having obtained a promise for another visit as soon as she had read the books I lent her.

Our acquaintance went on, and my room-mate and myself used thenceforth to share, generally, the pleasure of her visits. But if she chanced to find a stranger in our apartments, she was away like a deer: no coaxing could induce her to extend her acquaintance-an effect, no doubt, of maternal advice. She always brought, in return for our slight favors, her mother's thanks as well as her own. Her conversations might not be interesting enough to be written down, but, taken in connection with her extreme youth, her beautiful sad face, her perfect manners, in short, with herself, it was the most fascinating I ever heard. I knew she was to be one of the early-called, and frequent were the interchanges of thought on this presentiment between W and myself.

At the close of an afternoon in Summer, after a tedious day's study for a prize examination, to be held next day, and for which 1 was pre paring at the last moment, I sat at my window, waiting patiently for the cool breezes which every day started up about sunset. The birds were twittering good-byes and lullabies around me. The leaves were beginning to flutter under the first kisses of the rising wind. The sounds of busy life were fainter and more musical, and I was almost dreaming in the bliss of the scene, when I felt a light arm stealing around my neck, and in an instant my own was folded around Rebecca.

Our talk that night was a strange one. I remember remarking to her -Heaven knows I loved her too well to flatter her, or to try to do so :"Rebecca, you must stand pretty high at school, you learn and commit to memory so easily: are you not first in your classes?"

She shook her head eagerly and replied artlessly-too artlessly to boast or fear to boast :

66 Oh, no! I have a schoolmate who is a much better scholar than I— oh, much. Last time she took the first premium ?"

"Who took the second prize, Rebecca ?"

"I took that."

"How old is this schoolmate of yours?"

"She was fifteen the other day."

As Rebecca was but eleven years old, I easily accounted to myself for the success of her rival, and added;

"Ah, well, perhaps in four years you will be as good a scholar as she is now."

"Four years! I shall not live so long as that, it is very likely. Mother thinks I am not to be long-lived."

66

Why, Rebecca, what are you saying?"

"OI have such pains in my breast sometimes, that I almost faint away. Then as soon as I grow better, mother cries and hides her face, but I felt the tears one day on my hand."

I could scarcely speak. At last, I said as calmly as possible;

"Does your mother ever tell you in words, that she is afraid you will not live long?"

66

I think so; for when we pray together, she asks that, if God should see fit to take her child early to Himself, He will take her to His bosom. I know what she means."

"But, Rebecca, do you know what you are saying? Are you willing to die, to leave the flowers and the trees, your schoolmates, your father and mother and little Willie ?"

Her face grew sad for an instant; then fixing her eyes upon me, while the light of the world beyond seemed to fall upon her pale features and kindle them to a heavenly complexion, she said:

"Sometimes I am very, very foolish and cry because it seems wrong to take away one so young as I and lay me in the ground. I cried so hard the other night in bed about it, that I almost choked. But it was all wicked. For I know I shall go to heaven, which is a much better place than the world. I shall have no pains there and mother will not cry when she meets me, and little Willie

She could say no more.

A few days after, she told me she had obtained permission from her mother to attend the next Commencement of College, and hear me speak upon the stage. She never cared, she said, to go before, but she wished to see how I would act before such a great crowd. I had very little ambition for the one-day glory of a College anniversary, but I must own that Rebecca's promise stirred that little deeply. I was inclined to hope something from her girlish comparison of myself with others, especially as I had all her partialities in advance. The following day, I gave her a good-bye kiss, and left to be absent for a few weeks. On returning just before Commencement, I met W in the We had hardly interchanged greetings, before he bent forward and whispered in an altered voice;

street.

"Little Rebecca is dead."

I looked at him without speaking. I shed no tear there. I was of an age, when to weep I was ashamed. Whether as I hurried away, two or three scalding drops fell from my eyes, is a secret I have no wish to tell. If they fell across my cheek, I was too proud to acknowledge that they were there by wiping them away.

While the sun was flashing from millions of dew-drops in the graveyard early on the next morning, I was there to look for Rebecca's resting place. The sexton directed me to the spot; but when I reached

it, I was not moved as I had expected to be. At first, I could not—as is usual when deaths occur during our absence-believe for an instant, that she was dead at all. I went so far as to remonstrate with myself aloud for my obstinate incredulity. I turned away from the grave towards the spot, where we used to meet so often, half expecting to meet her graceful form again and part her beautiful hair with my hands, as before. I shook off the illusion and returned to the cemetery, when for an instant the true idea of her existence flashed upon me. 1 knew that she lived. In the place of distracting doubts, I felt Heaven's divine consolation coming over my soul. "She is not here, she is risen." But the old fancy will return. For a long time, whenever I revisited I always passed by the house. I knew not only that she was dead, but that her family had left the place forever; yet I looked intently, as if she might start up again under the apple-tree blossoms and pull another note from its hollow trunk. I listened for another hearty kiss to little Willie. But a veil was between her and myself, which I may not pierce. At last, one evening as I went by the old homestead, full of the illusion which haunted me, I heard discordant sounds proceeding from the house. A band of young men and women were vainly endeavoring to perform a popular rondo in four parts. The jarring notes "entered into my soul," and I have not passed by the sacred spot since that time. I cannot forget the sacrilege.

LITERARY NOTICES.

THE PLANETARY AND STELLARY WORLDS: A Popular Exposition of the great Discoveries and Theories of Modern Astronomy; in a series of ten lectures. By O. M. MITCHELL A. M. Director of the Cincinnati Observatory. NEW YORK: BAKER & SCRIBNER.

THIS is a remarkably successful attempt to render popular one of the great branches of physical science. The work throughout displays a most familiar and extensive knowledge of the subjects of which it treats, and is written in a style of glowing eloquence that is in accordance with the magnificent scenes and objects which it describes. Professor Mitchell has now risen into one of the greater lights in his department; and this work, not less than his labors in connection with the Cincinnati Observatory, must surround his name with an imperishable glory.

WHAT I SAW IN CALIFORNIA. By EDWIN BRYANT, Late Alcalde of St. Francisco. NEW YORK: D. APPLETON & Co.

THIS is the journal of a tour made through the South Pass of the Rocky Mountains, across the Continent of North America, through California, &c., in the years 1846, 1847. The book is true to its title; or rather the title is true to the book. It consists of a record of the writer's observations at brief intervals, and in respect to every thing that he considered worthy of his attention. One cannot read it without getting an impression favorable at once to the integrity and intelligence of the author. It contains much of amusing incident, as well as a great deal of truly valuable information.

CHARMS AND COUNTERCHARMS. By Maria J. McIntosh. D. APPLETON & Co.

THIS is a moral tale, well worthy the gifted pen that produced it. It illustrates very felicitously various truths of great practical moment and especially the connection that exists between character and destiny. Those who have read the preceding productions of the same pen, will read this with high expectations; nor will they be disappointed.

AMERICAN GENERALS AND OTHER DISTINGUISHED OFFICERS: by JOHN FROST, LL.D. HARTFORD CASE, TIFFANY & Burnham.

:

THIS is an acceptable addition to our present number of books of a similar character-an accession of greater value, inasmuch as it is more extended than most works of the kind which have hitherto appeared. The riches of American biography, and consequently of American history, are herein contained. The sketches are for the most part bright, interesting, instructive. The leading facts, often also the minor points of our martial history, from the battle of Lexington to the late war with Mexico, are faithfully portrayed, and render the work at once attractive and valuable. It appears in a neat octavo form embracing more than nine hundred pages, illustrated with six hundred and forty engravings.