“You may, perhaps,” continued she, “be partly right, but you are much more wrong. Short, comparatively, as has been my life, it has furnished material enough for an age of thought, and by using it I have again and again felt the pleasures of the soul. Then, too, this was not a dream life, the idle vapors of which could be dispelled by a sudden transition to reality, for there was nothing in it that had not, at one time, been really seen and felt. It was rather a life of quiet and happy reflection. It is not a dream nor delusion to wander back, by the marvellous power of thought, and take your accustomed place once more at the social board of a loved and peaceful home, and have again renewed within you the feelings of youth. It so resembles the substantial truth that we can scarcely discern a difference, and revives sympathies so pleasing that we involuntarily desire their constant presence. The spirit ever retains its hold upon the past, and the delightful hours of childhood, when we drank in the many joys of our young and unruffled life, come back again to awaken the same emotions that animated us then. The affections once more leap into young and untainted existence, and we feel as guilelessly happy and buoyant as in youth. No occurrence fails to re-enlist our attention, but each trifling incident contributes its just portion to our pleasure. How much we doat upon these things, and how fondly we cherish them! There,” directing my attention to a neat little article, “lies a trifling relic of one with whom I had spent many of my days in girlish companionship. She no more walks the earth, for she sank quietly and peacefully into the grave, just as she was budding into beautiful womanhood. She had done the work appointed unto her, and Death gathered her to himself; but, though she is buried, I never gaze upon that small trinket without calling up again her sweet image from its solemn resting place to experience once more, perhaps more vigorously than ever, the many pleasures we had enjoyed together. Here,” lifting up her hand, “is a token of friendship which I need but gaze upon to revive a variety of remembrances so pleasing that I would not exchange them for the most valuable treasure. How well do I remember the day, the very hour, though sad it may have been, when this tiny ring first encircled my finger! It was an hour of parting between loving friends, yet not an hour in which they forgot each other. Though far away, she still remembers me as ardently as I retain my recollections of her, and the many happy moments we spent together. Happily, however, it needs not these material trifles to wrest from oblivion the incidents of our lives. One after another we can breathe them into existence as often as we will, through the powers upon which they have made an enduring impression, and as they re-appear before us, the hallowed shadows of substances once enjoyed, we become enchanted with their loveliness.