elight, we li

oys of life's

r, each dim di

ems than all the

rm that fanc

vion, glows di

s of love and gentle acts of kindness already received transformed and ripened within me a more trusting and ho

aul so poetically designates as "The Festival Day of Life," in which period friendship dwell

ce of the promise to meet me, all of which must have been dispelled when, upon the arrival of the stage, a cheery, gentle voice, in a tone which would have filled the darkest moment of doubt with the sun-ray of trust, exclaimed: "How does thee do, Mary?" Miss Rachel Weaver, my companion, was a bright-eyed, sunny-hearted, English girl, whose presence irradiated the atmos

s chapel of Gothic architecture, frescoed nave and highly wrought transept; no stained glass windows of rainbow hue; no gorgeously draped altar or elaborate organ; but in a simple wooden meeting-house, upon a g

my little books, and I am safe in saying that e

the guests was Mrs. Hoag, a lady of lovely character and cultured mind, who insisted upon having us accompany her to her home, a mansion rich and

ment," which so gently glided away that we awoke, like those aroused

hange in my physical and mental condition. So talismanic is the touch of love, so inspiring and life giving! and 'tis to this dear commu