Now you will look up sweetly,

And gratefully smile on me.
I can go hiding behind you-
Then in a day or two
Perhaps a baby may find you,
And I may hear it coo!

'Yes, your cheeks may be whiter
Than all the rest of your race;
Other eyes may be brighter,
Others fairer in face;

But no flower that uncloses

Can be as precious as you ;

No, not an army of roses

Fighting all the year through.'

All the fairies confess it,
As that daisy revives;
They come around to caress it,
Every one glad it lives.

No one ventures to doubt it:
Hosts of penitent fays

Make their dance-rings round it,
Sing their songs in its praise.

Hours of fading and growing
Pass-the daisy is not!

Sweeter grass blooms are glowing

Still by the little spot.

There each fairy that hovered

Sung whilst passing above-
Here a daisy recovered!
Here is a footprint of love!'

VOL. III.

17

Lilian highly approved of the story of the daisy, and her pretty suggestions, as she had picked up Danish quite fluently now, aided Ella in her versification, for she wanted the simplest terms.

The book was to be her parting gift to Denmark, which had sheltered her when England had been too unkind. Her last

pages contained

THE SLEEP.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward into souls afar,

Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if there any is,
For gift or grace surpassing this—
'He giveth His beloved sleep.'

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart to be unmoved?

The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep?
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse?
The monarch's crown to light the brows ?—
'He giveth His beloved sleep.'

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,
A little dust to oversweep,

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake'He giveth His beloved sleep.'

'Soft, soft, beloved,' we often say,

We have no time to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;

But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber when
'He giveth His beloved sleep.'

Oh, earth so full of dreary noises!
Oh, men with wailing in your voices!

Oh, delved gold which toilers heap!
Oh, strife and curse that o'er it fall!
God can strike silence through it all-
'He giveth His beloved sleep.'

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men sow and reap.

More softly than the dew is shed,

Or cloud is floated overhead,

'He giveth His beloved sleep.'

Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man,
Confirmed in such a rest to keep ;
But angels say, and through the word,
I think their happy smile is heard-
'He giveth His beloved sleep.'

For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a child tired at a show,

That sees through tears the mummers leap,

Would now its wearied vision close,
Wound, eniid-like, on His love repose,
Who, giveth His beloved sleep.'

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,

And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let one, most loving of you all,
Say. Not a tear for her must fall ’-
Et greti Eis beloved sleep.

Basy with her poetry, happy with her busband, and gay with her child, for so she called Lian, Ela nished her Danish pictures, and put away her palettes and brushes with a son of foreknowledge that If they were ever used again, it would be in some distant country as yet unrevealed to ber

Rudolf from Paris wrote to McLaughlan about the death of Bessie's mother; and free and open with him on all subfects, he told that the death of Willson had sccelerated her end, and sent the paper in which she had seen the sect

Edith never inquired about any letters

which came to her husband,—she had not yet freed herself of an objection to ask anything; she felt as if under an obligation to him, in fact, so did not seek intimacy as to his pursuits or employments.

An English newspaper, however, she felt at liberty to look at, and she read the one sent from Paris, and found the paragraph marked, 'A sad mystery of the sea.

She read the mystery, and replaced the paper in McLaughlan's private room, and was very silent for some time. When Lilian was gone to bed, and a quiet hour was upon her, she said,

'You never asked me, Gerald, where the money was about which I boasted to you that I had gained, that I had worked for; did you ever wonder where it is?'

'No; never mind. We do not want it.' 'I lent it, Gerald; it has vanished.' 'So much the better; you cannot boast of it again.'

'You will not doubt me?'