For a moment the conflict in that father’s bosom almost shook his frame with emotion. At first he turned away, refusing to see his boy; but in every line of his agitated face might be seen the struggle betwixt affection for his son and his sense of injury. Nature at length triumphed; he suffered himself to be led towards the penitent, and the next moment the members of the re-united family were sobbing alternately in each other’s arms. R. * * * * * MY MOTHER’S BIBLE. BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. This book is all that’s left me now!— Tears will unbidden start— With faltering lip and throbbing brow, I press it to my heart. For many generations passed, Here is our family tree; My mother’s hands this Bible clasped— She, dying, gave it me. Ah! well do I remember those Whose names these records bear: Who round the hearth-stone used to close, After the evening prayer, And speak of what these pages said, In terms my heart would thrill!— Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still! My father read this holy book To brothers, sisters dear— How calm was my poor mother’s look, Who leaned God’s word to hear! Her angel face—I see it yet! What thronging memories come! Again that little group is met Within the halls of home! Thou truest friend man ever knew, Thy constancy I’ve tried; When all were false, I found thee true, My counsellor and guide. The mines of earth no treasures give That could this volume buy; In teaching me the way to live, It taught me how to die. * * * * * THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA. BY EDGAR A. POE. Una. “Born again?” Monos. Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, “born again.” These were the words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the explanations of the priesthood, until Death himself resolved for me the secret. Una. Death! Monos. How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I observe, too, a vacillation in your step—a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You are confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal. Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts—throwing a mildew upon all pleasures!