countenance before her.  Something like sadness passed over her face, and her voice was deeper in its tone, as she repeated, “Good night, dear Aunt Mary!” With a slow step she left the apartment, mentally contrasting her own position with that of her aunt.  Circumstances around her and the society with which she mingled, tended to drown reflection, and call into play only the brighter and gayer feelings, that flutter on the surface of our being.  She had never known the luxury of devoting an hour to genuine meditation on the world within—­or the great world without.  The earth was to her a garden of joy; she lived upon it only to enjoy herself.  Like many selfish people, Alice’s mother made an idol of her beautiful child, because she was a part of herself; and Mrs. Clinton was not one to perform a mother’s duty faithfully in instilling right views of life into her daughter’s mind.  Thus, with a depth of feeling, and rich gifts of mind, Alice fluttered on her way like a light-winged butterfly, her soul’s pure wells of tender thought unknown to her.  How many millions pass through a whole long life, with the deepest and holiest secrets of their being still unlocked by their heedless hands!  How few see aught to live for, but the outward sunshine of prosperity, which is an idle sunshine, compared with the ever-strengthening light that may grow in the spirit!  How strong, how great, how beautiful may life be, when smiled upon by our Creator! how weak, how abject, how trampled upon, when turned away from his face!

With better and more quiet emotions, Mary Clinton retired to rest.  “I can love others, if I am not beloved,” she murmured, and the dove of peace fluttered its white wing over her.  Her resigned prayer was, “Lord, into thy hands I commit my spirit.”  Tears of earnest humility had washed away all bitterness from the wrung heart of that lovely being.  How beautiful was the angel smile that played over her face, in her pure dreams!

A few weeks after, Alice entered her aunt’s apartment one drizzling, damp, foggy, uncomfortable day.  “Such miserable weather!” she exclaimed, throwing herself idly into an arm-chair; “I believe I have got the blues for once in my life.  I don’t know what to do with myself; it makes me perfectly melancholy to look out of the window, and nothing in the house wears a cheerful aspect.  Mother has a headache; when I proposed reading to her, she very politely asked me if I would not let her remain alone.  She says I always want to sing, read, or talk incessantly if she wishes to be quiet.  I can’t ding on the piano, for it is heard from attic to basement.  I don’t want to read alone, for I have such a desire to be sociable—­now, Aunt Mary, you have a catalogue of my troubles, can’t you relieve me, for I am really miserable, if I don’t look so!” Alice broke into a laugh, although it did not bubble right up from her merry heart as usual.

“If your attention was fully engaged, you would not mind the weather so much,” remarked Aunt Mary, with a quiet smile.  “You are not in a mood to enjoy a book just now, so what will you do, my dear?”