I could not tell him, but gave the letter to Ike, now grown into quite a dandy waiter, to take to her. I did not feel much curiosity about the letter, thinking it might be from some cousin of hers; but when I retired to bed that evening, she came into my room, and throwing herself down on the soft rug beside my bed, by the dim light of my night-lamp, told me all her happiness. The letter was from James Foster--he still loved her as dearly as ever. He had heard by chance of her father's death, and her situation, and said if she was ready to marry him, he was still waiting. He wrote of his handsome farm he had cleared with his own hands, and the beautiful wild country he lived in, telling her he hoped her future life would be free from all care. All this, and even more, dear reader, he told her--in plain, homely words, it is true; but love's language is always sweet, be it in courtly tongue or homely phrase. And James Foster came for her; and in our house was she married. My father presented the soft mull dress to the bride, which Kate Wilson and I made, and assisted in dressing her, and stood as her bride-maids. Aunt Lina, Biddy, the stamping, good-hearted Biddy, and dandy Ike, were all there, rejoicing in her happiness. Her husband was a stout, strong, hard-featured, but kind-hearted man, and looked upon his poor, care-worn, slender Lizzie as if she were an angel. We all liked him; and her whole troop of brothers, who were present at the ceremony, greeted him with hearty words of friendship. Three he persuaded to accompany them out to the "new home"--the farmer, the shoemaker, and the little white-headed Willie, Lizzie's pet--declaring all the time that his house and heart, like the wide western valley where he lived, was large enough to hold them all. They all went out one after another; and when I last heard from Lizzie, she was very happy, surrounded by all her brothers; and she told me of a little darling girl, whom she had named after her dear Miss Enna. My father and I often talk during the winter evenings, when sitting very cozily together in the warm library, of taking a summer's jaunt to Lizzie's western home. I wish we could, that I might see my lady-help as mistress of her own household; and what is still better, a happy wife, mother, and sister. LINES _Addressed to a friend who asked "How would you be remembered when you die?"_ How would I be remembered?--not forever, As those of yore. Not as the warrior, whose bright glories quiver O'er fields of gore; Nor e'en as they whose song down life's dark river Is heard no more. No! in my veins a gentler stream is flowing In silent bliss. No! in my breast a woman's heart is glowing, It asks not this. I would not, as down life's dark vale I'm going My true path miss. I do not hope to lay a wreath undying On glory's shrine, Where coronets from mighty brows are lying In dazzling shine: Only let love, among the tomb-stones sighing, Weep over mine.