Grace Marley’s time of departure now drew near; her government stipend had arrived.  The proprietors, who paid in trade, had deposited the butter and oats equivalent to her hire in the market boat, in which she intended to proceed to town.  And as this is decidedly the pleasantest method of travelling, I laid out to accompany her by the same conveyance, and we were spending the last evening with Mrs. Gordon, who also was to be our companion to St. John; we walked with Helen through her flower-garden, who showed us some flowers, the seeds of which she had received from the old country.  I saw a bright hue pass o’er the brow of Grace as we walked among them, and tears gushed forth from her warm and feeling heart.  Next day she explained what occasioned her emotion, a feeling which all must have felt, awakened by as slight a cause, when wandering far from their native land.  Thus she pourtrayed what she then felt—­

    THE MIGNIONETTE.

    ’Twas when the summer’s golden eve
    Fell dim o’er flower and fruit,
    A mystic spell was o’er me thrown,
    As I’d drank of some charmed root. 
    It came o’er my soul as the breeze swept by,
    Like the breath of some blessed thing;
    Again it came, and my spirit rose
    As if borne on an angel’s wing. 
    It bore me away to my native land,
    Away o’er the deep sea foam;
    And I stood, once more a happy child,
    By the hearth of my early home. 
    And well-loved forms were by me there,
    That long in the grave had lain;
    And I heard the voices I heard of old,
    And they smiled on me again. 
    And I knew once more the dazzling light,
    Of the spirit’s gladsome youth;
    And lived again in the sunny light
    Of the heart’s unbroken truth. 
    Yet felt I then, as we always feel,
    The sweet grief o’er me cast,
    When a chord is waked of the spirit’s harp,
    Which telleth of the past. 
    And what could it be, that blissful trance? 
    What caused the soul to glide? 
    Forgetting alike both time and change,
    So far o’er memory’s tide. 
    Oh! could that deep mysterious power
    Be but the breath of an earthly flower? 
    ’Twas not the rose with her leaves so bright,
    That flung o’er my soul such dazzling light,
    Nor the tiger lily’s gorgeous dies,
    That changed the hue of my spirit’s eyes. 
    ’Twas not from the pale, but gifted leaf,
    That bringeth to mortal pain relief. 
    Not where the blue wreaths of the star-flower shine,
    Nor lingered it in the airy bells
    Of the graceful columbine. 
    But again it cometh, I breathe it yet,
    ’Tis the sigh of the lowly mignionette. 
    And there, ’mid the garden’s leafy gems,
    Blossomed a group of its fairy stems;
    Few would have thought of its faint perfume,
    While they gazed on the rosebud’s crimson bloom.