She wrote on the eve of her departure from her native land, and with her singular, acquired shrinking from the avowal of her feelings, she made no allusion to the connection recently broken; and not a word revealed the grief that clouded over her fairest prospects and sent her forth an exile. Frequently afterward I saw her name mentioned as one of unwavering zeal in her adopted cause, and faithfully devoted to the laborious responsibilities of her mission. But between herself and her early friends a gulf seemed to be, perhaps because she did not wish to revive the over-powering recollections of the past. The absence of all communication with those once dear to her, must have been intentional, for she was not one to forget. Three years of this unbroken existence of care and labor had gone by, and then I had thus accidentally learned the mournful doom of a being endowed with all earth’s purest impulses, yet so soon recalled from its wanderings. Hers is no uncommon history—for many such are on our daily annals. O! give them kind thoughts and words, for these are the sad heart’s treasured gems! * * * * * THIS WORLD OF OURS. BY S. D. ANDERSON. This world of ours is beautiful—right beautiful, I ween, Are all its mountains tipt with gold, its valleys tinged with green, Its thousand laughing streams that sport, half sunshine and half shade, Like love’s first herald seen upon the rosy cheeked maid. The springing flowers are beautiful that open to the day, And spread their perfume far and wide along the sunny way; The vine-clad rocks and shady dells that bask in beauty’s sheen; This world of ours is beautiful—wherever it is seen. This world of ours was beautiful in those good olden days When knights would battle valiantly for ladies’ smiles and praise; When in the list and on the turf, with lance and spear and sword, These iron-handed men would meet no bond but plighted word. Each castle was a fortress then; each man could bend the bow, Or lead the dance, or join the song with voice as soft and low, As maidens when at night they hear their lovers’ whispered praise; Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good olden days? This world of ours was beautiful, when troubadours first sang, And castle hall and cottage roof with love and glory rang; When high-born damsels clustered round—perhaps to hear of one Who joined the armies of the Cross, to fight ’neath Syria’s sun; How he had borne the banner high amid the thickest fight, And placed his name where it will shine like stars amid the night; And then bright eyes would brighter beam, despite the truant tear; Oh! was not the world beautiful when minstrelsy was here?