Poor Esther! This description of a genial climate made her sigh; for while she read it, the cold East winds of New England were cutting her wounded lungs like dagger-points. But when she answered the precious letter, she made no allusion to this. She wrote playfully, concerning the health of the cows and the hens; asked him to inform her what was cackle in Spanish, for she reverenced the word, and would fain know it in all languages. Finally, she assured him, that she was studying busily, to make herself ready to reside in the grand castle he was building. The tears came to her eyes, as she folded the letter, but she turned hastily aside, that they might not drop on the paper. Never in her life had she been willing to let her shadow cross his sunshine. It was the last letter she ever wrote. She had sought to crown her brother with laurels on earth, and his ministering angel crowned her with garlands in heaven. * * * * * Three years afterwards, John stood by her humble grave in his native village. The tears flowed fast, as he thought to himself, “And I once blushed for thee, thou great and noble soul, because thou wert clothed in a vulgar dress! Ah, mean, ungrateful wretch, that I was! And how stinted was thy life, thou poor one!--A slow grinding martyrdom from beginning to end.” He remembered the wish she had so meekly expressed, that women might have a more liberal education, and a wider scope for their faculties. “For thy sake, thou dear one,” said he, “I will be the friend and brother of all women. To their improvement and elevation will I consecrate my talent and my education. This is the monument I will build to thee; and I believe thy gentle spirit will bless me for it in heaven.” He soon after married a young woman, whose character and early history strongly resembled his beloved sister’s. Aided by her, he devoted all his energies to the establishment of a Normal School for Young Women. Mind after mind unfolds under his brotherly care, and goes forth to aid in the redemption of woman, and the slow harmonizing of our social discords. Well might little brown feather-top cackle aloud; for verily her mission was a great one. THE STREAM OF LIFE In morning hours, Full of flowers, Our swift boats glide O’er life’s bright tide; And every time the oars we raise The falling drops like diamonds blaze. From earth and sky Comes melody; And ev’ry voice Singeth, “Rejoice!” While echoes all around prolong The cadence of that wondrous song. Above each boat Bright fairies float, Mounting on air To castles there. The earth is full of glorious things All tinged with light from rainbow wings.