“I in the burying place may see
  Graves shorter there than I.”

But the long night passed away with its sad presages, and the rising sun peeped between the thick clustering leaves and flowers of the morning glories that shaded the window, and diffused light and radiance upon the joyous landscape.  The birds awoke to new melody, and in the gladness that surrounded me I almost forgot the impressions of the previous evening.  I arose, though slightly refreshed, repeating as I did so,

  “So like the sun may I fulfil
  The duties of the day.”

Almost the first intelligence that greeted my ear was the death of Elizabeth Ann Prince.  While the shadows of that night still lingered, her pure spirit had passed away, and for the first time I realized more fully than I had ever done before, that youth is no protection from death.  I saw her in her small coffin, and felt the marble coldness of her pale brow, and as I saw the coffin descend into the narrow grave, I turned sadly away with a grief-stricken, and perchance a better heart.  But for many months I could tell the exact number of nights she had lain buried in the silent grave.

The next morning as I took my seat with a favorite companion, in the one behind that formerly occupied by her, I almost started as I fancied that her face was upturned to mine, and those blue orbs rested upon me.

The dear friend that sat with me, has too, passed away, “and the places that knew her once upon earth, now know her no more forever.”  Rosa was an orphan, having lost both parents; she was the youngest of four sisters, had an amiable disposition, and was an affectionate friend.  She was married to a wealthy man, and became the mother of several children; but the destroyer came and bore her from her dear family to the silent church-yard, and placed her beneath a grassy mound beside her father and her mother.  Sweet is thy memory, friend of my early days, and very pleasant were the hours we spent together:  but they have passed away with the things that were, and like the rose leaves that falling fill the air with their perfume, so the fragrance of those hours still lives.

Next to Rosa Whittier sat Julia Balcolm, with saddened expression of countenance and large deep blue eyes that gazed upon you with a deeper expression of melancholly in their glances than is usual to the merry age of childhood, and elicited your sympathy ere you knew her history.  Julia was a cripple.  She was drawn to school by an older sister with rosy cheeks, bright flashing black eyes, and a sprightly animated countenance, and carried into the school-room in the arms of her teacher, or some of the older scholars.  And so she came, year after year, mingling with the merry group.  But where is she now? yon little mound of heaped up earth covers her remains, and a narrow marble slab tells the place of her repose, and we can but hope she who was denied the privilege of walking on earth may now soar on angel’s wings.