He pushed through the crowd, and descended the cellar-steps. A girl cowered over an emaciated corpse that lay on a heap of straw in one corner of the damp apartment. It was the same girl he feared it would prove. The merchant was horror-struck.

"My poor child," he cried, laying his hand on her shoulder," you must be cared for : God forgive me for denying you last night. Here, take this," and he put a bill into her hand.

The girl looked up and gazed vacantly at him; then she put back the proffered money.

"It will do no good now," she said; "mother is dead," and she burst into hysteric tears.

The merchant, at that moment, would have given half his fortune to have recalled her to life.

The lesson, thus learned, he never forgot. The merchant personally saw that a decent burial was provided for her mother, and afterwards took her into his house, educated her for a high station in life, and, on her marriage, presented her with a proper dowry. He lived to hear her children lisp their gratitude.

THE WATER.

BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.

How beautiful the water is!

Didst ever think of it,

When down it tumbles from the skies
As in a merry fit?

It jostles, ringing as it falls,

On all that's in its way—

I hear it dancing on the roof,
Like some wild thing at play.

'Tis rushing now adown the spout

And gushing out below;

Half frantic in its joyousness,

And wild in eager flow.

The earth is dry, and parch'd with heat,
And it hath long'd to be
Releas'd from out the selfish cloud,

To cool the thirsty tree.

It washes, rather rudely too,
The flowret's simple grace,
As if to chide the pretty thing
For dust upon its face.

It scours the tree, till every leaf

Is freed from dust or stain,

Then waits till leaf and branch are still'd

And showers them o'er again.

Drop after drop is tinkling down,
To kiss the stirring brook,
The water dimples from beneath
With its own joyous look-

And then the kindred drops embrace,
And singing, on they go,

To dance beneath the willow tree,
And glad the vale below.

How beautiful the water is!
It loves to come at night,
To make you wonder in the morn
To see the earth so bright;
To find a youthful gloss is spread
On every shrub and tree,

And flowrets breathing on the air,
Their odors pure and free

A dainty thing the water is,
It loves the blossom's cup,
To nestle mid the odors there,
And fill its petals up--

It hangs its gems on every leaf,
Like diamonds in the sun;

And then the water wins the smile,
The flower should have won.

How beautiful the water is!

To me 'Tis wondrous fair

No spot can ever lonely be,
If water sparkles there—

It hath a thousand tongues of mirth,
Of grandeur, or delight;

And every heart is gladder made,

When water greets the sight.

THE TWO SISTERS.-A SKETCH.

BY KOTZEBUE.

[WITH a great deal of pleasure we commend to our fair readers, and to all our readers, the following beautiful sketch by Kotzebue. The moral is finely drawn out, and it will do the heart good to read it.]

In a large city in Germany dwelt two sisters— Jeannette and Pauline. Jeannette had the good fortune to be very handsome, and the bad fortune to find it out very soon. She soon accustomed herself to look in the glass-that was natural; she soon took pains in dressing-that was pardonable, she endeavored to acquire accomplishments--that was prudent; but she thought nothing more was necessary that was foolish. True, she played well upon the harpsichord, and sung bravura airs with taste: she drew landscapes after Hackert, and embroidered flowers from Nature. But she only played the harpsichord in great companies, and only sung airs at concerts; she only drew landscapes for exhibition, and embroidered flowers for sofas and screens. At home, time passed tediously, although her weak old mother was continually praising her beauty. This old truth could only give pleasure by coming from new lips; hence Jeannette was continually seeking new society. Ladies always practise a certain economy in the praise of other ladies; but gentlemen, on the contrary, are generally very lavish of praise;

and therefore Jeannette was fond of the society of gentlemen.

Her sister Pauline would probably have thought and acted in the same manner; but no one praised the poor girl, simply because no one noticed her, for the small-pox had rendered her appearance homely. She was also far behind her sister in showy accomplishments. She played the guitar, and sung agreeably, but merely simple little songs. She was not behind Jeannette in the art of drawing; but except a few landscapes which hung in her mother's chamber, which no one but her mother saw, no one knew of her talent: for the homely Pauline was as diffident as the fascinating Jeannette was unembarrassed; and it only required a second look from any one to cause her to blush deeply. Fortunately this did not often happen, for no one looked at her twice. She embroidered as well as her sister, but only upon work-bags for aunts and grandmothers. She appeared best at home-in company the consciousness of her homeliness gave her an air of constraint; but affairs could not go on without her.

When the girls grew up, their mother thought proper that they should take charge of the house each one by turns, week about. Pauline soon became accustomed to it, and in her week all things went on right. When Jeannette's turn came, she hurried about busily the whole forenoon, but when noon came the dinner was spoiled. She grieved, also, at the time she lost from her singing and harpsichord, and the little time which was left her to arrange her head-dress for her evening parties. The