Unto the Giver of all good for her, And oh! may it be answered. God of Love! Lend, for her sake, to winter’s frosty sky, A genial influence, till the prisoned bird Of health shall flatter fearlessly beyond The narrow bars of sickness, and with life Sparkling and clear, as diamond newly set, The graceful stranger safely may return Unto the fitting casket of her home! * * * * * WAS SHE A COQUETTE? BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PIERSON. LETTERS FROM MISS LUCY LEE TO MRS. KATE KING. _Cincinnati, Ohio, June 4._ Dear Kate,—Here we are, all safe and sound. Mother has arranged her furniture, and set her new house in order. Father has entered on the duties of his office, and I am fast forming a circle of elegant acquaintances. I fancy we shall be very happy in this fine city. Father and mother seem delighted with every thing; and as I brought my whole heart with me, I shall have no cause for home-sickness. Some very wise people have said that I am destitute of a heart, but I do not put any faith in such sayings; and yet a heart is no very desirable possession, if one may be allowed to judge from what one sees of its demonstrations—it invariably makes a woman a fool, and a man ridiculous. For instance, there is Harry Brown, who was moping, and sighing, and rhyming, on my account, during the last six months of my stay in our dear native city—did he not make himself supremely ridiculous? I could laugh at his folly, but for a feeling of contempt, that turns mirth to bitterness. I received yesterday a dolorous letter from aunt Alice, accusing me of having broken his heart, and rendered him miserable for life, and all that. But, dear Kate, I don’t believe in broken-hearts. There was Fred Gay, who used to “worship” me, when I was a baby of fourteen. I do not know why it was, but I felt an insuperable aversion to him. I was miserable in his company, and my very hand shrunk instinctively from his touch; yet as he visited at our house, common politeness obliged me to treat him civilly, which was all the encouragement I ever gave him. At length he found opportunity to propose. I, of course, rejected him at once; but he was resolved not to take no for his answer, he pleaded, and promised, and lamented, and wept, and said he was undone forever, and took the most solemn oath that he would never, _never_ marry any other woman living. Well, I did pity him very much, but I could not say him yes; yet I wept myself sick on his account, and was verily afraid that I had done wrong. So I made a confidant of my dear mother, and she said to me, you have done right, Lucy; never marry a man whom you do not love. Still I was troubled, and felt that if he was, indeed, undone, I should never know happiness. Well, what followed? Why, in less than a year, he married that old,