The two girls entered the family parlor; Malina with her cheek flushed once more and a step tremulous but haughty. Poor Phebe clung to her side, looking frightened and much more like a culprit than her sister. Mrs. Gray was seated at a table looking cold, precise and courteous as if nothing had happened; her black silk dress was arranged with that scrupulous care which she always bestowed on her raiment. Her false curls were carefully fastened beneath the slate-colored ribands and the fine lace border of her cap, while a muslin neckerchief was folded on her bosom, beneath the dress, sufficiently low to reveal a neck that had not yet lost all its whiteness, and a string of large gold beads which encircled it. The family bible lay open before her, but she was not reading, for in an easy chair close by sat the minister. He had been pastor at School-hill for more than twenty years, was naturally a kind man, but believed the well-being of his congregation to be identified with certain doctrinal points, which to dispute was rank heresy. He looked very grave when the girls entered, and rather restless, as if the duty which brought him there was one which his naturally kind heart would have avoided. “Phebe, you may go to your chamber,” said Mrs. Gray to her eldest daughter, who had followed Malina to a chintz sofa and was about to sit down by her side. Phebe hesitated and looked toward her mother, as if anxious to remain; but as she parted her lips to speak, a more decided command sent her weeping from the room. [_To be continued._ * * * * * TO THE EARTH. BY JAMES ALDRICH. How are thy charms, O maskéd Earth! displayed, In hill and valley, rock and waterfall, Flower-studded field, deep glen, and open glade, With the blue sky in beauty bent o’er all. Seekest with outward shows to win the heart? Only their glare our grosser vision dulls; The inward eye beholds thee, as thou art, Great hearse of man, vast catacomb of skulls! Thy moving forces, which we call the living, Bustling and battling through their little day, Are nought to thy great prostrate army, giving Their flesh to worms, their bones to slow decay. And what is that which life thy children call? A little round of idle hopes and fears, A dream prefig’ring being, this is all, Made up of hope and smiles, despair and tears. The countless millions all around us lying With ghastly upturned faces, free from strife, The unreturning dead, yet the undying, How laugh they at the nothing we call life! Enough! enough! if after our brief fretting, Freed from thy fetters, we may rise in bliss To some bright world where Life’s sun knows no setting Where we may meet the lost and loved of this.