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[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.] GRACE ATHERTON; OR, THE CHILD OF THE WRECK , BY MAUD MORETOX. CHAPTER YI. “ The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, • But changes, night and day too, like the sky: Now o'er it, clouds and thunder must be driven, And darkness and destruction, as on high; But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierc'd and riven, Its storms expire in water drops; the eye Pours forth at last, the heart's blood, turned to tears.” The last employer of little Grace, was of a harsh, exacting, selfish nature, utterly incapable of appreciating the delicate sensibility and timid nature of this child of sorrow. The most menial .offices were required, and the most stringent penalties threatened. Mrs. Sharpton was a short, stout woman, about fifty; stern, hard, and un educated, living in the suburbs of the vast, tu multuous city. A* small brown house, gaunt and grim, .With no aspect of cheerfulness, no look of domesticity, was called her home. She main tained a precarious existence by sewing, and lit tle Grace was pinned down to her unflagging needle from morning till night—the only relief, if relief it could be called, to her childish fatigue, i was some laborious duty within doors, or some errand to be accomplished without. Stem and uncompromising, no kind word came from the lips of her mistress to cheer her on in her love less life—no weather, .however severe, exempted her from her distant errands—no sickness or langour excused her—and her little weary feet, scarcely protected from the excesses of the weather, trod their exacted round, when hardly able to support her languid framo. She was re * quired to work until her eyes ached, - and closed with involuntary fatigue and sleep, when she would be suddenly aroused by the harsh voice, or the descending blow. Mrs. Sharpton’s family consisted of herself and a young niece of about sixteen, a vain and silly girl, m whose nature cunning and duplicity predominated.. She was very much afraid of her aunt, whose avarice exacted from her in daily toil, more than an equivolent for her board and cloth ing. Heartless and selfish, she saw nothing in the meek and gentle nature of Grace to touch her feelings, or to elicit her compassion. Her own tasks often unfinished, were thrown upon the uncomplaining little girl, whose simple char acter never suspected the wheedling tone, and honeyed words employed to prevail with her. Maria Sharpton's pleasures and recreations were few, and those of a frivolous nature, and of stolen indulgence. Her love of company, and fondness for dress, often induced her to resort to low cunning and duplicity to satisfy her ruling passion. Often when her aunt, worn out with her hard and laborious life, was fast stink in sleep, rendered more deep by the liberal pota tions of beer, in which beverage she freely in dulged, Maria would array herself in her finery, and steal off to some low revel, leaving the weary, over-tasked little Grace, with aching eyes and exhausted frame, by the flickering light of a single candle, completing some unfinished task, and threatening her, if she divulged her secret, with cruel retaliation. On one occasion, having been positively com manded by her aunt not to leave the house, to attend a party, given by some acquaintance, and having been refused some finery, wliioh she fanciod necessary to the full equipment of her . charms, she espied the chain and locket around the neck of Grace—placed there by her mother, with such mournful prescience of ill, and which with more than childish ’sentiment Graco had preserved through every viscisitude, and under every emergency. W ithher usual cunning, Ma ria approached, and with fond caresses and soft words, endeavored to possess herself of the val ued treasure, hoping to pawn it for the much admired, secretly coveted, flaming ribbon. But alHier intreaties failed in moving the gentle lit tle creature, who refused to part with it, at first, mildly and steadily, and then more peremptorily, until Maria fairly exasperated, vowed that hers the chain should and would become; at all events the ribbons must and should be bought, for, to the party, where she expected to meet her lover, she was resolved to go. All that day she had teased and worried Grace, until even her meek nature was roused, and a linn refusal gave the unprincipled girl no hope of gaining her end.' Another expedient suggested itself to her fertile brain. She watched her opportunity, and while her aunt was sleeping the deep sleep of tired and exhausted nature, and Grace was finishing off her appointed task, Maria, with quiet Step, stole to the pocket of her aunt, and possessed herself of the keys to a little tin box where she kept her small, hard-earned, hoarded possessions. Without noise and stealthily she turned the key and drew out a bill. The sharp click of the lock induced Grace suddenly to look up, and she saw the bill hastily thrust by Maria into her pocket, while the conceited girl hummed a light air as a cover to her confusion. Grace's look of dismay and astonishment was met with a ready reply—“ She told me I might have it,” and her aroused suspicions were quieted by her own simple, trusting nature, and the prompt and bold reply of her companion. The flaunting ribbon was purchased, and did its expected duty in attracting the lover, for whose especial eye it was procured. The de nied pleasure was secretly gained, and propor tionally enjoyed. The little overtasked girl was left alone, her work falling from her listless fin gers, as she wept and dreamed fond visions of her past liie. She saw herself again the happy, caressed child of her grandfather’s home, with her young brother, the loving companion of her childish sports, out in the breezy field that ad joined their home; sh^ remembered his joyful delight, as ho heaped iim> her lap the wild flow ers, or crownedf her with his first imperfect at tempts at a wreath, and how, when tired with the pleasant labor, they rested under the large oaks, as they waved and swayed in the breeze. She remembered how, even then, to her child ish comprehension came the undefined thought, and the silent wonder, at the Almighty Hand I that had formed the lovely flowers and bade them blow and perfume the air, and to wave and f smile, in the soft breeze of a spring sky. Her saddened life had n - w but a single pleas ure, and this was the soothing retrospect of the past—when she could, at will, put aside all the bitterness and sorrow of the present, and call up the few, bright spots on which she loved to linger. Swiftly, too, followed other thoughts— the tender parting from home, the dreadful wreck, the last look of her dead mother, the ' last glimpse of her father’s manly form. W aking up, with a sudden start, abruptly fled her dreams, f' The childish memories, the sacred remembrance of the beloved dead, sank once more into their quiet resting place in Grace’s young heart. She saw Maria, in disordered dress, and with hot, flushed cheek, creep stealthily into the room that served the whole family aA sleeping apart ment, and throw herself heavily into her accus , tomed place of rest; while she, with a sad heart and shivering frame, sought her little cot, and [ endeavored once more to lose her sense of utter wretchedness in the oblivion of sleep. Months i£> tmm mwmmm&m wm&w juro wmmmm* passed, and tne recollection Os the abstracted bill was entirely forgotten. One day Mrs. Sharpton, having occasion to meet i some demand, went to her stronghold, the lit tle tin box, confident of finding the amount there undiminished. Upon counting her bills, what was her anger and surprise to find one missng. She counted over again and again, but still with , the same resslt. The suspicions of her coarse 1 nature pointed at once to Grace, comparatively a stranger in her home; for never liefore had such an event occurred, and who else could have been the transgressor? With inflamed visage, and infuriated manner, she boldly accusod her of the theft, and threatened condign punish ment. A conviction of the truth flashed across tho mind of the generous child, and she deter mined first to appeal to Maria’s justice before exposing her to the fury of her aunt. With a hardened and assured look of defiance, Marta met her meek appeal—with a prompt denial and unscrupulous accusation, said “she had never touched the bill: but, on the contrary, had seen Grace abstract it from the little box, and had promised not to betray her.” Confounded by this bold assertion, the heart of the child failed; and her streaming eyes and intimidated manner were confirmation strong of her guilt, in the eyes of her exasperated mistress. Sending fbr the police, she threatened her with imprison ment. and to thrust her out, helpless and unpro tected, with the withering blight of a tarnished name, upon the cold charities of a heartless world. The horrors of imprisonment, to the imagination of a child nurtured as she had been, possessed terrors not to be surpassed; and her forlorn little heart quaked and quailed in the ex tremity of Ms fears. In vain her protestations of innocence—in vain her meek look of suppli cation. “ Did not Maria see her with her own eyes?”—and was she not there, cool and col lected, asserting the fact, and maintaining it, with unmoved and undaunted assurance? Sending Grace for a pitcher of her favorite beverage, Mrs. Sharpton determined to avail herself of her absence to call an officer, and see that justice' was done to “ the abominable little vagrant, that she had protected like her own child.” With such a perspective, no wonder that the faltering step of the poor child failed, and, falling upon the frozen and slippery ground, there resulted the hapless accident of a broken pitcher. Her child’s heart was overwhelmed with the fear of cruel punishment, and she sank down, weeping, on the doorstep of a stately mansion, crushed ami helpless. Ah! hush thy mournful wailings, sad heart. Even now angel wings are hovering over thee — angel whispers are wooing thee into hope! It is the dark hour preceding the glowing dawn! The rainbow is even now forming in the gloomy heavens of thy sad, young life! CHAPTER VII. “Her memory still, within my mind, Retains its sweetest power; It is the perfume left behind, That whispers of the flower.’’ “Youths' eager life, and changeful lot Nor sterner manhood's graver toys, Nor trembling age, itself, can blot The memory of our earliest joys.” More than two years had elapsed since the wreck of the vessel, as recorded above, had oc curred. The memory of its horrors, except witli a few of the survivors, had passed away with time. The feeble sufferers rescued by the pass ing ship arrived, shattered in health, with bro ken ties, wrecked feelings, and aimless future. Our little friend Grace, as we have seen, or phaned and sorrowing, with none to protect or care for her, was among tlie desolate survivors. Her touching story, told with childless simplic ity, was listened to by many curious, and some interested auditors. Her extreme loveliness of appearance, and gentleness of manner, claimed for her a passing interest; but with the facility with which orphaned childhood is ever disposed of by a busy and selfish world, she was passed from hand to hand. The great tide of life swept on, and she, with all her young sorrows thick upor her, was lost sight of and forgotten. It may be thought strange, that Ralph Tra vers shoidd so soon have forgotten the little com panion of his voyage, the hapless sufferer of the wreck; and should, when restored to his home and friends, have never reverted to her loss, or made any effort to ascertain her fate. He had been among the passengers, who deserted tiie wreck, in tho first boat, and although urging Mr. Atherton to place his family with them, had been unable to prevail with him to do so, or to con vince him of the danger of lingering so long up on the trembling, laboring vessel. The compa ny, who shared with him the protection of the little boat, after floating upon the water for two days, were picked up by a Portuguese schooaer, and carried into Lisbon. He wrote from thence, apprising his father of his safety, and requesting funds for his return home. He was received with open arms and grateful hearts by his father and sister who, in all the agony of suspense, had waited for tidings of him, until their hearts had sickened with anxiety and dreadful foreboding, and hope had almost ceased to shed its cheering ray upon their deserted lives. In the long, wea ry months that elapsed, he made many inquiries after his interesting little fellow traveler, and, af ter a fruitless search, the painful conviction was forced upon him, that she had shared the mel ancholy fate of her parents, and the other pas sengers. He ofren described to his sister her winniug graces, her gentle and loving temper, and the many fascinations of character that had left so deep an impression upon his ardent and affectionate nature. Her melancholy eyes seemed to haunt him, and the echo of her silvery laugh to linger on his ear. Ale recalled their long talks on the moonlit deck, her childish wonder and interest, as he poured into her eager ear tho thrilling adventure, or the touching narrative.— He saw again her look es terror, and her mute appeal for pity and protection when the fury of the storm had driven her, terrified and helpless, clinging to the side of her father. He remem bered with what heroic self-control she had en deavored to suppress all expression of her own fears, that she might not add to the agitation and anxiety of her parents. He recalled her last look of despair, as the little boat in which he sat, shot off into the angry surf—her clasped hands —her upraised eyes—her parted, pallid lips—her childish figure, in its touch’ng and sim ple grace of hopeless, mute misery. These visions haunted his memory for many a long day, and while a hope remained of her fate, he was restless and wretched. But when his melancholy forebodings became an irresistible conviction, her image gradually faded into a som bre recollection, a saddened regret: for time, like a mighty river ever rolling on, bears on its broad bosom many a human woe. many a sorrowing remembrance. His bouyant and youthful na ture rebounded into life and its interests: and he became again the interested companion of his father and sister, the cheerful, energetic, inspir iting promoter of their schemes of benevolence and usefulness. The gay world, too, had its claims, and the fascinations of society were among the enjoyed privileges of his fresh and early manhood. The siren, pleasure, had wooed him into her charmed circle. It was the height of the season, in the great city of the Empire State, and a handsome drawing room, in a fash ionable locality, was thronged with a gay and brilliant crowd. Diamonds Hashed in the gas light, and stately men, and lovely women floated in the dance to the sound of ravishing music. The elegant appointments of the many rooms, the gorgeous hangings, the costly carpets, upon whose velvet was scarce heard the muffled foot-fall, the splendid mirrors, priceless paintings, and faultless statues, displayed taste and refine ment, the pride and pomp of wealth, liefitting the courtly home of cultivation and polish. Gay laughter and soft music were wafted on the air, and graceful forms were clustered in groups be neath the blazing chandeliers, or moved with loitering step through extensive conservatories, whose perfumed air intoxicated the senses with a soft delight. The world without presented a strange and striking contrast to the world within. Tho storm of a winter sky was overhead—the snow drifted in huge heaps, and the keen air pierced with remorseless cruelty, the homeless wanderer on that bitter night. But little heed gave that gay and careless crowd to the piercing blast, the stinging cold, the sharp air of that winter storm. All around them was revelry and joy, how could they remember the destitute and needy without ? All within was plenty and profusion: how should the thought of poverty and suffering dare in trude. at sjieh an hour, and in such a scene? The sounds of gladness and merriment floated around: how could they think upon wails of sorrow, or eights of distress ? A handsome equipage droYo to the marble steps of this stately mansion, and a soft voice, in gay repartee, was borne out on the night air. A lovely, delicate looking girl, muffled in furs and wrapped in an ample cloak of costly fab ric, stepped from the carriage, and leaned on the arm extended for her support by a grave man of middle age. Following immediately in their rear was the rapid step of a younger man. His gait was quick and energetic, his head had a proud grace in its lofty tun:, and his whole bearing was that of a high bred, matured, and finished man. It was Ralph Travers, our friend of former years. He had lost every trace of the volatile, light-hearted, dreamy youth, and his appearance was that of perfectly developed man liness ; the pleasant countenance and the cheer ful voice remained the same. A sound of low sobbing, as of some one in distress, smote tho ear of this party, as they ascended the steps, and caused them to pause. Turning quickly to discover the cause, the foot of the young girl slipped, and she fell prostrate over what apjieared to lie tbe recumbent figure of a young child. Recovering herself, she stooped, and, by the blaze of light streaming from the door opened to receive them, site saw the drooping form of a young girl, her head rest ing in her hands, the golden ripples of her hair concealing her face, and falling around her like a mantle. Her childish frame was shaking and trembling with convulsive sobs. By her side iay the fragments of a broken pitcher, appa rently the cause of her present distress. She raised her ljead suddenly, and threw back the clustering hair from her soft brow. The tear drop still stained her flushed cheek, and her red lip quivered with suppressed feeling. An ap pealing look for tenderness and protection beamed from her dark grey eye, and her attenuated form and haggard face told its own sad tale. Her timid, frightened manner revealed the harshness she feared, the accountability she felt for her hapless accident. “ Madeline, it is she—it is Grace 1” exclaimed the young man; and passing impetuously for ward, he encircled her form in a close embrace, and laid her little, thin, wan face upon his bo som, resting his hand upon her dampened locks with a fond and gentle pressure. A .quick, bright glance of intelligence and recognition flashed from her eyes, and, with a low cry of joy and happiness, she rested in his arms, Hut teging and palpitating like a‘ young birp. She was gently lifted up, and, with quick returning steps, the party bore her, with loving ’eompas sioli, to their own home. From that day forth she became a sacred charge to that devoted household. For many weeks her enfeebled pow ers lay passively, without strength of mind or body to rebound. Day after day, kind words soothed her—kind looks watched her—loving hands tended her, and loving hearts ministered to her. Then came childhood’s joyful convales cence. The light again stole into her eye— roundness came to her form, and elasticity to her step. The sorrows that had shaded her young life, like a dark cloud, vanished be fore *the sunshine of kiadness, protection and love. The music of her laugh again rang in her new home—her light step moved gracefully through the novel scenes of her changed life— her loving nature expanded to the fresh claims upon her heart—and happiuess once more shed its soft light upon her pathway. The bitter past lay far away in the distance, and it seemed to her now peaceful feelings as if 1 the world in which she had suffered had no longer an exist ence. CHAPTER VIII. “But happy they, the happiest of their kind. Whom gentle stars unite, and in one fate Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend!” It must not be supposed that the elderly Mr. Atherton had made no efforts to ascertain the fate of his beloved son and family, and had qui etly rested in his uncertainty with regard to them. When the news of the wreck of the ves sel reached him, his fears were most painfully excited, and for weeks he watched for tidings with an agonizing sus|K?nse. He wrote in every direction where he thought it possible he might obtain information —and day after day found him with haggard face and aching heart, hoping against hope with that sickness of the soul, so terrible to endure. Ilis was a double'duty—a two fold sorrow—to bear his own sense of bit ter suffering under the suspense and anxiety that was a secret torture, and to sustain his in valid wife with delusive hopes, that were grad ually resolving themselves into a gloomy certain ty. Pajier after paper was searched, aud their contents devoured with a miserable alacrity, with the hope of obtaining some relief to their heart breaking suspense. No tidings came to cheer him, and after months of the heart’s slow con suming tire of anxiety and suffering, he aban doned all hope, and turned, with crushed feel ings, to break as gently as lie could, the calami tous assurance to his wife. Her health, long del icate. sunk under the cruel blow, and she rapidly declined, and faded gradually away from his side. The soft airs of spring waved over a new-made grave. Life’s fitful fever was over with one more of earth’s sorrowing children. The be reaved husband and father, and his young grand son, were left the soul mourners of this once happy, but now desolated household. But my story is nearly done. “Truth is stranger than fiction," is an axiom admitted by all as a loose generality—and its applicability to many a romance in real life is frequent aud start ling. Tho above narrative is literally true, and the dramatis personae are living, acting beings in this weary-working world of ours. Should these lines ever meet the eye of the little Grace ! of my story, she will recognize in the recital of j many sorrows, and striking vicissitudes of her ; young life, the faithful pen of a conscientious 1 narrator. ears have rolled by since the incidents I [ have related occurred. The glowing, lovely wo- i man, who now .muses so pensively upon the sor- I rows of her past life, who moves so noiselessly and gracefully in the sacredness of home, per- j forming all those gentle offices of love, and ! making of life a blessing, is the same little Grace ■ of the wreck, the light-hearted little traveler— 1 the saddened, oppressed, orphan child—the suf ferer on that bitter night, with her broken pitch- , er, and her breaking heart—the then restored, caressed, rescued treasure of her grand-father’s home. The same rippling waves of golden hair are cast loosely back from her blue-veined temples—the soul-lit eyes—the gentle manner— , the low, soft voice—the musical laugh—the tin- i selfish nature —the loving heart of her child hood, are still the same. A quietness rests niton j her calm features, and the bright glance of her ! soft eye tells of subdued, grateful, satisfied hap piness. And the grave dignified man. who is watch- j ing her movements with admiring and approv- | ing glance, is the same impetuous, ardent, loving | Ralph—the companion of the little voyager in ■ the ill-fated “Sea-Bird"—the friend of her or phaned and saddened life—the efficient, ener getic, large-hearted protector, who brought her in safety to th) yearning heart, and desolated home of her beloved grand-father. With a love that but grew with his patience, he waited year after year, until lovely, grateful childhood had expanded, and bloomed* into fond, blushing, glorious womanhood, and then claim ing the reward of a faithful, constant, devoted heart, he cherishes her now with a husband’s protecting, undying love. [Written for tho Southern Field and Fireside.] A PLETHORA OF HAPPINESS. , BY ANNA CORA RITCHIE. [coscLrnzn.] CHAPTER 11. “Yes, everything I believe—every thing in the world!” and she sighed heavily. “ Perhaps you do not take exercise enough.— Do you walk out, or ride out every day, and move alxmt, and occupy yourself with the house hold matters, and with the little ones ?” “ I have not the strength for all that—besides it is not needful. The nurses look after the chil dren and are devoted to them. I have admira ble servants, they take charge of the household. As for walking—l don't walk—what’s the use of walking, when one can drive ? I don’t ride on horseback because it’s too conspicuous —but I drive out when the weather is fine and I am in the mood.” “ How can you expect to feel bright and buoy ant and well, dear, if you break all physical and mental laws ? It is only by activity, by employ ment that you can earn, or deserve healtli; oirly by the use of your faculties that you can pre serve their vigor. We must get you thoroughly interested in something—give you something to do." “ Something to dot You wouldn’t horrify Mr. Willington by such a suggestion! Do you sup pose he would allow his wife to work ?” “Yes, truly, if he would have her healthful and happy. Did you never hear of a nobleman woodsawyer ? Lord Elgin in his Canadian home used to fell and saw trees as industriously as though he were earning his bread. He was earning health and strength which are quite as important as bread. Do you remember a beau tiful injunction, concerning labor, from the sweet singer, Fanny Osgood? I heard these lines years ago, and they have haunted me ever since: they have been to me the song of a good angel to scare away the demon of idleness—thus they run, “ Work for some good, be it ever so slowly, Cherish some flower, he It ever so lowly, Labor! all labor is noble and holy! Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God." “ I am afraid I should offer up no prayer, if that was to be the condition,” said Angelica, listlessly. “It must be very fatiguing to have the mind constantly on the stretch, and always to feel as if there -was something that must bo accomplished." “ Not half so tiresome as to have nothing to think of, and nothing to do—that is the moat wearisome work in the world, and wins the | poorest reward—an income of ennui. For my part I confess that I should be wretched if there was nothing in which I could interest myself; and I am sure that I should not only become (or fancy myself) an invalid, but probably I should be a dreadfully wicked person in the bargain. I firmly believe in Satan’s finding “ some mischief still for idle hands to do." “Ah! but we have such different tempera ments! You and I are so unlike!” “Perhaps so; but we are governed by the same unalterable laws.” “ 1 could not interest myself, as I have heard i that you do, in schools for ‘ ragged children ’ And ! in procuring employment for young women—in , sewing societies, and all that sort of thing. I hate what busy people call their ‘ duties' I 1 think, generally speaking, the most tedious peo ; pie in all the world arc people who can’t do that, or must do this, because it’s a ‘ duty.' ” “ And /think that duty is only another word \ for methods of earning happiness. Duty is some thing laid out at interest to bring in an income of pleasure. You need not seek your duties in ‘ ragged schools ’ and institutions for the employ ment of young women, or hi ‘ sewing societies,’ all of which seem so distasteful to you; leave these for the busy hands of old maids—such as 1 intend to be—if I don’t change my mind. A wife and mother has abundance of pleasant oc cupation in* the circuit of her own home, if she will but think so, and seek for it diligently. But she must not fold her little hands with a martyr like expression of patience, as you do now, and close her bright eyes upon all that is beautiful and joy-imparting around her. If she docs, her energies will stagnate—and—” “ Ah! Ruth, dear, you are so energetic —that's the word!—you always were. But do you know I have heard’Mr. Willington say that nothing fatigued and tormented him so much as energetic women —women who were always on the go— always striving to achieve some great end.” “Test his words! Prove whether they are correct, just for variety’s sake. Try the experi ment of rousing yourself up to some energetic employment, and see whether ho will not natu rally make more a companion of the wife energies are all alive, than of the pretty dot’*" whom he must weary, and to whom he t^nk ß he has done his duty by surrounding ,jr J*?. I luxuries, and cheating himself into “ ae that she is an invalid.” “Oh! he’s the best husband * n “ ie world! I’ve nothing to complain of— w allows me to do just what I please. To N Bure > we “ on 1 Bec much of each other; bo' I l l * o “1 01 1° amuse himself. Heigho! do, « u ever the 'bluest' I have them every d*F - • _ w V. indeed. If I had, I should sentence my self to ‘hard labor,’ as the punishment, and cer | tain cure of an attack. But, Angelica, I sup pose you sometimes walk with ilr. Willington, and read with him, and form plans for the edu cation of the children, or the entertainment of | your guests, or—” “No—l do not think Ido. I can’t read much; it gives me the headache. And when I walk, it is in the garden, and men don’t care to walk jin gardens. You must see our garden—it really | is the prettiest that I ever saw.” “ Perhaps you love to take care of flowers,” suggested Ruth, lightening. « i “No—we have a capital gardener. Uncle Job is very fond of his flowers. It’s Arena's | place to gather them and make bouquets. You’ll : tind them in every room in the house, as a mat j ter of course.” “ But I should think you would at least like Ito cull and arrange the flowers yourself. That | must give you pleasure.” “ W hy should 1 take the trouble, when I have ' some one to do it for me ?” Ruth, who had preserved great serenity du ring this conversation, though she was shocked and grieved at her friend’s deplorable state of mind, now l>ecame fairly roused. She answered ! in a tone so earnest and excited that it startled , Angelica out of her lethargy. “Why should you take the trouble to enjoy? Truly, that you may not lose the capacity for en joyment which God has given you as a reward for the healthful use of your faculties! Why should you take the trouble to think—to feel— to sympathize ? Because, without thought, with out feeling, without sympathy, you must become a living clog—a vegetable nonentity—a breath ing petrification I Because the mental paralysis which is gradually falling upon your spirit, would deprive soul and body of their noblest powers! Ah 1 Angelica, I laughingly said to your hus band that I should discover the disease under which you are laboring, and I hardly thought to keep my word so easih-. Your ailment is a ple thora of happiness —a surfeit of good gifts I You have not paid your tribute of gratitude to the la vish giver of these blessings, by putting them to use; you have not made them reach others; they have not radiated from you, as their centre, and fallen brightly on a wide circle extending around you; and they turn to curses, to disease, and weigh upon you like a nightmare! Privation would teach you their value. Sorrow would perhaps restore the tone to your mind, reinvigo rate your body, and bring back the conscious ness of happiness which, for the time being, you have lost.” Angelica listened as though the weary spell under which she was bound had suddenly been broken. She was no logger reclining upon the sofa, but sitting up erect and strong. Her lips quivered and her blue eyes dilated, as she gazed upon Ruth’s beaming countenance, and drank in her words. When the latter ceased speaking, ’ there was a pause of a few seconds; then An- I gelica replied, with an emotion which animated her whole frame and illumined her countenance with a higher beauty than it had ever yet known : “ Ruth, I wish I could feel as you do!” ****** Years passed before Angelica and Ruth met J again, for the latter was only traveling through j Charleston, and left the next morning. But, what small events influence a life 1 What casual words, sounding in the ears, and echoed over and over again in the memory, affect a whole exist ence 1 The history dl nations shows the won derful agency of trifles in working out important ends! A basin of water spilled on Mrs Mash um’s gown led to the removal of Marlborough, and so to the peace of Utrecht, which had its influ ence upon all Europe. An idle boast of the Duke of Buckingham, caused a terrible war be tween England and Prance! The accidental visit, the unpremeditated ad monition of Ruth Merriwether, changed the whole current of Angelica’s life. When she felt oppressed by that sense of weariness and dejec tion which had long weighed upon her spirit, Ruth’s voice exclaiming “a plethora of happi ness /” would wring mockingly in her ears. “A plethora of happinqss—a surfeit of good gifts!” Yes, it was true —she acknowledged it to her self—that was her disease!” She had nothing to desire, and she had lost the very conscious ness, the faculty of happiness. When once she commenced to reflect, she noticed that her hus band found no enjoyment at his own home—that he sought his pleasures elsewhere; and she said to herself, “ A doll —not a companion —ho wearies of me—Ruth said he would 1” She observed that her little ones clung to their “ mammas ” in preference to her, and Ruth’s words would sound in her ears again. Those words had been a new revelation to Angelica—they had placed ia her hands the golden key which unlocked the secret of her lassitude, and languor, and depression. For some thne after she became cognizant of her own state, the evil seemed aggravated by being comprehended; but the dangerous illness . of her little son, wakened the mother in lier heart, and gave her a motive for exertion. She hung over bis bed, day after day, and forgot her ennui —her ailments—her low spirits, in minis tering to the little sufferer. Then followed a thrill of joy, amounting to ecstacy, when the i sweet invalid’s first signs of returning health gladdened her maternal eyes. “ Ruth was right, again. Sorrow was good for 1 mol I was suffering from a plethora of happi ness!” she inwardly exclaimed. That conviction, and that confession, were the heralds of a happy change. It was not effect ed in an hour, or in a day—it was hardly per ceptible at first; but was gradually felt through out the household, by children, sen-ants, friends, dependents—most of all by Angelica's husband Ah! no one divined how simple was the that wrought this wonderful metamorpho'B! A few passing words of truth, dropped from the kindly lips of a friend, and the diw jVe ry of an ailment which proved to be only a plethora of happiness." The new Comet. —F rt<n observations of the present comet, nyf at the Observatory in Cambridge during *' flr «t week of its appear ance (April 28-?sJ Mr. Safford, of Cambridge has calculated ae elements of its orbit and its course for tl- rest of the time when it will be seem it v now moving nearly south, and will continue* 0 do so until it is lost in the sun’s rays. May ‘'Ah, it comes nearest the sun, and it is t l,p, at one-fifth the earth’s distance from it. It ~al again lie seen in June. It is growing somewhat brighter as it is nearing the sun; but it will be barmy visible to the naked eye. if at all, in about two or three weeks; it will be then above the head Orion. In June it will need a powerful telescope to see it The length of its orbit is not yet ascertained. —North American. Madame Roland could prepare her husband’s meals with her own hands, and at night delight the most literary company of France, by her brilliant powers. - yji —Car- C it