Weep not if through her withered stern Is creeping dull decay; Weep not, If ere the sun has set, Thy nursling dies away. The blast was keen, the winter snow Was cold upon her breast; And though the sun is shining now, Still let thy flower rest. Her tale is told; her slender strength Has left her drooping form. She cannot raise her bruised head To face another storm. Then gently lay her down to die, Thy broken passion flower; And let her close her troubled life With one untroubled hour." Alice read these lines as I wrote them. When I had finished, she shook her head gently, and said,-- "These are pretty words, and pretty thoughts too; but not my thoughts." "Tell me your own thoughts, Alice; I would fain hear them." "I can't," she said. "Try." "I think as I see the flowers die so quietly, that they should teach us to die so too. I think, when I see my poor plant give up her sweet life without complaining, that it is because she has done what she ought to do, and left nothing undone which she ought to have done. I planted her in my little garden, and she grew up to my window; she gave me buds first, and then flowers--bright smiling flowers; and when I was ill she gave me holy happy thoughts about God and Christ. And therefore I wish to do likewise--to do my duty in that state of life to which it shall please God to call me; and then to die quietly, when it shall please Him, like my passion flower." As she was finishing these words, I was startled by the loud and angry tones of Henry and of Mrs. Tracy, who seemed to be disputing violently. They were speaking both at the same time, and his voice was quite hoarse with anger. I overheard these words:--"I tell you that if you do not command yourself, and behave as I desire you, I will never see you again, or put my foot into your house." A tremendous oath followed this threat, and then their voices subsided. I looked at Alice; she seemed concerned, but not surprised or agitated, at what was going on down-stairs, and merely closed the door of her room, which had been left open. A that moment, however, Henry came half-way up the stairs, and calling to me said that it was late, and that we had better be setting out again. I complied, and in coming down into the room below I was civilly greeted by Mrs. Tracy, who thanked me for my visit, and muttered something about hoping we should soon meet again. Had it not been for Alice, who had interested and charmed me to an extraordinary degree, I should have formed exactly a contrary wish, for I had never more heartily agreed with any opinion than with that which Henry had pronounced about his former nurse; and her civility was to my mind more repulsive still than her ungraciousness. I took leave of her coldly enough, but earnestly pressing Alice's hand as I mounted my horse, I whispered in her ear, "Alice, I like your poem better than mine," and rode off.