Mrs. Howard’s surprise was increased, for Edda’s blushing face and lips, trembling with emotion, told that she had a deeper meaning than the mere expression of an opinion; but Edda soon removed her wonder. She told her the whole history of the past—her struggle on that eventful night at the sea-side watering place years before, when the fearful temptation to self-destruction had assailed her; she caused the kind old lady’s eyes to grow dim with tears, when she described the beneficial effect produced by the overheard conversation between her and Mr. Morrison; and added, with tears and smiles of joy— “Yes, dear Mrs. Howard, your blessed words taught me my duty. If I have any happiness in life, I owe it, through God, to you. But, happy wife and blessed mother, as I am, I thank God I have no daughter’s future resting on my heart. A woman’s lot in life is a dangerous one, either in prosperity or adversity, and to tread her life-path well she seems to require almost a special helping from God; to but few is this granted, and many there are who wrestle darkly and blindly with sorrow through life’s perilous journey unaided.” “But,” replied Mrs. Howard, “does it not strike you that you are taking but a one-sided, narrow view of life, my dear? When you speak so sadly of woman’s lot, it seems as if you thought this life was all we had to expect, when I am sure you do not think so. The perils of life belong to both man and woman. But what matters all that we suffer in this state of existence, when compared with the glory of the sun-light of eternity—that sun which has no setting, and of the rising of which this dark, perilous life-hour is but the precursor—the hour before the dawn.” “You are right, my dear madam,” said Edda, with a sweet look of meek thoughtfulness, “and I, of all other women, should not speak so hopelessly, for, after all my dark hours, light came at last; and so beautiful is life to me now, that I sometimes fancy to me is given a glimpse of Heaven’s dawning.” * * * * * SONNETS, ON PICTURES IN THE HUNTINGTON GALLERY. BY MRS. ELIZABETH J. EAMES. I.—ST. JOHN. I stood within the glowing, graceful ring Of pictures hung upon the gallery’s wall:— The admiring murmur of the crowd did bring My step to pause before a shape, in all The thoughtful grace of artist-skill designed, The sense of Beauty _felt_—but not defined. Thou face, serene in solemn tenderness— In the uplifting of those calm, deep eyes; On the rapt brow of holy earnestness The light of prophecy reflected lies. The mystic vision of the Apocalypse Thy pen of fire sublimely did record: But most we love His lessons from thy lips— John, thou beloved disciple of the Lord!