Eden; and that when for his disobedience, the doom of decay and death was pronounced upon him, and upon the world that was given him for his inhabitancy, that immortal plant was taken back to heaven, its native and appropriate soil.

The sacrifice of our adorable Redeemer has restored to his followers the hope of eternal life; and that hope, fast bound to the cross-the emblem of atoning mercy, fills the path-way of life with its amaranthine verdure and fragrance, and shall be a token, if not a crown, of victory to the dying believer.

SHELLS.

BEAUTIFUL work of my Maker's hand!
Shining wonders of sea and of land,

So smoothly polished, so carefully wrought,
That ye baffle the power of human thought!
On
your radiant hues I love to look

And read a lesson from nature's own book.
Ye are many, as sands by the ocean-side,
And yet for you doth Jehovah provide-

He clothed you with beauty; endued you with life,
And preserved you unhurt mid the elements' strife;
And myriads now as fair and as bright,

In the depth of the ocean lie hid from our sight! Beautiful treasures of sea and of shore,

He careth for you-but for us, how much more! E. L.

ANICA.

NOT A DREAM.

It was a lovely night. The busy hum of the village was hushed. The moon had climbed above the mountain's summit, and thrown her magic tints upon the landscape. One of our party proposed a promenade. Bonnets and cashmeres were soon adjusted for protection against the falling dew, and our escort led the way, with hat in hand, until the gate closed after us. We strolled along the bank, overlooking a beautiful inland bay. The light was so pure as to render the features of the scene distinct to our vision, and its effects so enchanting, that we were tempted to prolong the enjoyment. Often did we pause to admire and wonder and adore, until the queen of night, walking in majesty, had reached her highest point, and, " in mid-heaven, her orb" seemed like "the eye

"Of Providence, wide watching from the sky,
While nature slumbered".

Suddenly, our attention was arrested by a voice of lamentation, and leaving my companions I hastened to the little enclosure whence the sound proceeded. A lady, in deep-mourning, lay prostrate on a newmade grave, embracing the sods that covered it, wildly exclaiming, "Anica! O my child-my child! Have I been the murderer of your precious soul! Tell me, Anica―are you happy-or are you miserable? Tell your wretched mother!" I recognised an old acquaintance, and attempted to raise her up; but she clung to that little mound with a frenzied grasp; and in mute astonishment I listened to the almost agonizing confession and appeals that were ever wrung from a mother's heart. She had no tears to shed. Hers was the burning anguish that drinketh up the spirit-the anguish of

remorse! In that narrow cell, her hopes were all interred. She had buried her idol, and despair, like a scowling spectre, haunted her soul. She had no God to go to in her affliction. She had apostatized from the faith she had once professed, and rejected the gracious invitations of the Saviour to repent, return and live. She had trampled on the blood of the covenant, and "done despite unto the Spirit of grace." She felt that she could not lift her eyes to the throne of mercy, for she remembered that it was written, "Vengeance belongeth

unto me; I will recompense, saith the Lord." When she had become so much exhausted as to offer no farther resistance, I gently raised her. The moonbeams fell upon her marble features; her lips were cold and livid, and her eyes gleamed with an expression of unutterable horror. In vain did I attempt to sooth her-she dashed the cup of consolation from her lips.

I had known Anica in early childhood, when her rosy fingers gathered the violet and the jessamine; when her fairy footsteps quickened in pursuit of the wanton butterfly, pausing, but still eluding her little out-stretched arms. Even now,

her sylph-like form seems bounding before me with all the glee and animation of that perfect health which

"Bloomed on her cheek and brightened in her eye."

Yet in the midst of her sports, she always evinced an inquisitive mind, and would stop to examine whatever appeared new or curious—

"Now with young wonder touch the sliding snail,
Admire his eye-tipped horns and painted mail."

And then, attracted by the buzz of a humming-bird, she would lean against the trellis to watch "the little dweller in the sun-beam, flitting from flower to flower," gathering nectared sweets; now roving