And I suppose that Minnie told him, reader, for the last time I was at Oakwood there was the happiest bond assembled that earth can show. Kate, my poor Kate! was the delighted mother of another girl called Minnie, while a little Paul that ran about had a decided resemblance to Harry Selby, the proudest man alive. Blanche was beginning to look matronly with her three treasures, and Rose was wandering down the avenue with another nephew of Mr. Selby’s. Lisa, my queen-bee, was herself still—I could not say more for her, and Mr. de la Croix sat at the hall door watching his children and grand-children with a happy look. “They have suffered enough,” said he to me; “but my crown of jewels, my friend, is brighter than ever, after the breath of adversity for a while dimmed its lustre. Kate and Minnie, poor girls! have been in the storm, and felt its violence, but the rest shared their sorrow until it became their own. It was for the best, as all things are, and God in his mercy chastened them without sending Death among us again. They often recur to it, and while Minnie deplores her fault, Kate weeps at the remembrance of her dead child with a gentle sorrow, that allows her to contemplate its happy fate with a Christian’s view of the two worlds. It is not perhaps my part to praise them, but take them all in all, I do not think you will find a more cheerful, willing, and dutiful band than mine. They have been and are still, my crown of jewels.” * * * * * TO A CELEBRATED SINGER. BY R. H. STODDARD. Oft have I dreamed of music rare and fine, The wedded melody of lute and voice, Divinest strains that made my soul rejoice, And woke its inner harmonies divine. And where Sicilia smooths the ruffled seas, And Tempe hollows all its purple vales, Thrice have I heard the noble nightingales, All night entranced beneath the bloomy trees; But music, nightingales, and all that Thought Conceives of song is naught To thy rich voice, which echoes in my brain, And fills my longing heart with a melodious pain!