rapidly. Then she came and put the sheet into a shiver ran along the slender limbs, and then my hand.

"Read it, Gertrude.

the golden head dropped backward. Andrew

Have I done rightly?" | Lincoln's boy was dead!

you

"MY DEAR HUSBAND,-Andrew, our little boy, is very ill. The doctor calls it scarlet fever. I thought that would wish to see him. Your presence would be the greatest comfort. Your faithful wife, "KATHERINE LINCOLN."

Katherine saw it, and the energies so long taxed gave way at last. She fell at her husband's feet in a death-like swoon. He kissed the white, still face ere he lifted her. "Poor Katherine!" I heard him murmur. Was there

Could it fail to touch that a quiver of love in his tones, or was it only pity?

This was the note. strong, true heart of his?

"Had we not better take her into the next room? She ought not to be here when she comes to herself," I said, forgetting at the moment how strangely my voice would fall upon his ears. I had been standing in the shade of the bed-curtains, and he had not seen me before.

I had little time for speculations or Katherine Lincoln for hopes. Andrew grew worse rapidly, until the question was no longer whether he would recover, but how many hours he could live. Neither of us left him for a moment except occasionally, when one or the other would steal away, to whisper a few words of comfort to poor little Bella, who was kept in a distant wing of the house in order to be removed from the danger of infection. But we could not go out of the room without those restless, preternatural-room, and busied ourselves in restoring her. I ly bright eyes missing us in a moment, and then the little, weak voice would wail-"Mamma, Gerty, don't leave Andy, please." So we watched over him constantly together, neither sleeping, eating, nor weeping.

It was the afternoon of the fourth day since Mrs. Lincoln had dispatched her letter. A change had passed over Andrew's face, sudden and fearful. We knew too surely what it portended. He was dying. In a few moments his soul would go forth, and leave the fair little body lying upon the pillows still and tenantless. Katherine's eyes met mine, with a look of stony, immovable wretchedness in them that fairly chilled me.

"You, Gertrude!" The words, with their accent of questioning surprise, came as if involuntarily from his lips, and then neither of us spoke again while we carried his wife into the next

I

only waited until she opened her eyes, and put-
ting the hair from her white face, sat up and
looked at her husband, before I went away from
them. I did not stop to think; I knew it would
not be wise or safe. I went at once to Mr.
Wentworth, who was with Bella, to tell him of
Andrew's death and Mr. Lincoln's arrival.
had occupation for a while in soothing the little
girl. Then with my own hands I made ready
my boy-mine by the love I bore him—for the
grave. I brushed the soft, curling hair round
the still face, restored now to more than the
beauty of life, and frozen into the last and
sweetest smile of all. When I had arranged all
things, I went again to his parents. They were
sitting near together upon the sofa, and Kath-
erine was repeating, in a voice broken with sobs,
all the details of those last sad days. Even
then, she thought of me with her usual tender
consideration. When I went into the room she
said:

"To think," she said, "that he will not be here "that he can never see poor little Andrew again alive! Gertrude, this is my work." I knew the step which came, at that very instant, so hurriedly across the hall. So did she, for she clasped her hands tightly upon her breast, as if to hold her heart from breaking. She "This is Miss Hamilton, who has been to me looked as white as a marble statue, and as fair. the dearest and truest of friends. We can nevI could see that, even in the midst of my sicken-er thank her enough for all she has done for Aning anguish over the boy whom I loved as if he drew. He loved her scarcely less than he loved were my own. I do not think Andrew Lincoln his mother." looked at her as he crossed the threshold. I think he saw nothing but the little wan, deathstricken face upon the pillows. He sprang to the bedside and knelt down with a groan of despair; he had recognized the impress on the pallid brow.

Do dying eyes see more clearly than living ones? Andrew was nine years old now; he had been only four when he saw his father last, and yet his face lighted up with a sudden, glad glow of recognition. "Papa, papa!"-he piped the words in his clear, boyish treble, as joyously as I had ever heard him speak. He stretched up his arms, and his father caught him to the bosom that, for five years, had longed so vainly for the touch of that little head. “Papa, papa!" | and the face and eyes brightened with a radiance as of dawning - the pale, quivering lips sought the father's lips bending to meet them

How strange it seemed to have him speak to me in such words, constrained yet grateful, as a husband would naturally use to his wife's friend, who had been kind to his dead child. He had uttered such different ones when we met last! I was weak, I know, but I could not command myself sufficiently to answer him. I only said:

"I have dressed our darling now. I thought you would wish to see him."

They rose and went together into the still room where lay their dead. I staid alone. Even my love and my grief gave me no claim on that consecrated hour.

Andrew had died on Thursday. On Saturday afternoon he was to be buried. I had passed Friday in my own room, keeping Bella with me most of the time. The poor child was almost frantic at the loss of her brother, and it was well for me to have some one besides myself to think

of and to comfort. I believe Mrs. Lincoln passed Death had taken the bright, noble boy I loved that long, dreary day, for the most part, alone. so well, and had given me nothing. I had a Much of the time I could hear her husband's rest-right to weep as I stood beside the dead and less steps pacing along the piazza, and once I pressed my hot, throbbing forehead to the little knew he went away for a solitary walk. cold hand. He had gone from me to a land where there would be no sin in loving.

Two weeks had passed since little Andrew's funeral, and from my seat under the pines I could see through the distant greenery the gleam of the white marble cross on which his name was graven. I sat there, where the shadows danced about me as the sunlight glanced fitfully through the boughs, looking listlessly at the beautiful landscape, and thinking mournfully about my life. Again had I come to one of its milestones. Again, yet again, must I take up my pilgrim's staff and go onward, into what strange scenes, amidst what perils, who can tell? Others, I "Not desolate," I cried, "surely not desolate. thought, had friends, and love, and home-sweet Bella is left you, and your wife"-and then I rest, safe shelter. Why had fate dealt so hardwent on, carried quite out of myself, half forget-ly with me? I was not wont to repine, to be ful of even the presence of the dead, in my passionate longing, at whatever cost, to reunite those two and make them both happy.

better apart. Our paths led far away from each | any other future in this world, and, perhaps, for other. They might wander wherever the flow- this reason I do my duty the better.

ers smiled or the birds beguiled them. I must
go out into the world to do my work, to earn
the bread I should eat. But the prospect which
had looked so gloomy to me an hour before
seemed changed. Things from which there is
no escape always confront us with a sterner mien. |
Now that a choice had been offered me, and I
knew that ease and leisure might be mine for the
taking, I could accept work thankfully, recog-
nizing its ministry as best for my soul's needs.
I cheerfully made up my mind, and then I went
into the house.

Mrs. Lincoln met me in the hall. She put her arm round me, and kissed me with a deeper tenderness in her manner than I had ever felt before.

"You are going to be our sister, Gertrude?" "Gladly; I am most thankful to owe to friendship the tie which birth denied me." "And we will be so happy, all of us together."

"But I can not stay here. I will be your sister always your faithful, loving friend while life lasts; but it would not make me happiest to live here. I must be independent, even of those I most value."

This was my firm resolution, and I kept to it. In vain were all their entreaties, and at length they desisted from them. Perhaps Katherine's womanly intuitions interpreted my heart as no man, not even the best man, could do. When she found that I was not to be moved, that I would not go their way, she bestirred herself to help me go my own. I owe to her the situation in which I am passing the mid-summer of my life. I am a teacher in a girls' school. Young, bright faces are around me-young hearts gladden me with their love. I have no hopes or dreams of

It is ten years since little Andrew died, and Bella-now a young lady of sixteen-is the dearest of my pupils. Three years ago she came to

me to be educated.

"I bring her to you because we can express how deeply we trust and honor you in no stronger manner than by giving you our only child to train. Make her like yourself, and we shall

be satisfied."

These were her father's words when he put her hand in mine, and since then she has been my chief comfort. She was too young to remember the one sad episode in her parents' lives. I heard her just now discussing with two of her friends, as such young things will, love and marriage. I heard her say,

"You are wrong, Fanny, if you think people always cease to care much about each other after a little while. My father and mother have been married twenty years, and you can not find me two in their honey-moon who love each other more fondly or are happier."

She is right. Andrew Lincoln and his wife are happy, with that full blessedness which only love can give. I think of them daily, and rejoice in their joy. For myself-if one's path lies always in the shadow one will never die from a stroke of the sun-I am content.

For this long ten years I have never been to Hazelwood. Its master and mistress come to see me every summer, and I know it grieves them that I postpone so long the visit I am always promising. I shall go some day. I want to see how the roses have grown about the grave where little Andrew has slept so long. I shall press my lips to that white cross which gleams above him, and offer on that spot my prayer of thanksgiving for life and all the blessings of life.

T

THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS.

RINITY bells with their hollow lungs,

And their vibrant lips and their brazen tongues,

Over the roofs of the city pour

Their Easter music' with joyous roar,

Till the soaring notes to the sun are rolled
As he swings along in his path of gold.

"Dearest papa," says my boy to me,
As he merrily climbs on his mother's knee,
"Why are these eggs that you see me hold
Colored so finely with blue and gold?
And what is the wonderful bird that lays
Such beautiful eggs upon Easter days ?"

Tenderly shine the April skies,

Like laughter and tears in my child's blue eyes,

And every face in the street is gay,

Why cloud this youngster's by saying nay?

VOL. XXII.-No. 131.-S s

So I cudgel my brains for the tale he begs,
And tell him this story of Easter eggs:

You have heard, my boy, of the Man who died,
Crowned with keen thorns and crucified;

And how Joseph the wealthy-whom God reward!-
Cared for the corpse of his martyred Lord,
And piously tombed it within the rock,
And closed the gate with a mighty block.

Now close by the tomb a fair tree grew,
With pendulous leaves, and blossoms of blue;
And deep in the green tree's shadowy breast
A beautiful singing bird sat on her nest,
Which was bordered with mosses like malachite,
And held four eggs of an ivory white.

Now when the bird from her dim recess
Beheld the Lord in his burial dress,
And looked on the Heavenly face so pale,
And the dear fect pierced with the cruel nail,
Her heart nigh broke with a sudden pang,
And out of the depths of her sorrow she sang.

All night long till the moon was up

She sat and sang in her moss-wreathed cup,

A song of sorrow as wild and shrill

As the homeless wind when it roams the hill,

So full of tears, so loud and long,

That the grief of the world seemed turned to song.

But soon there came through the weeping night

A glittering angel clothed in white;

And he rolled the stone from the tomb away,

Where the Lord of the Earth and the Heavens lay;

And Christ arose in the cavern's gloom,

And in living lustre came from the tomb.

Now the bird that sat in the heart of the tree

Beheld this celestial Mystery,

And its heart was filled with a sweet delight,

And it poured a song on the throbbing night;
Notes climbing notes, till higher, higher,
They shot to Heaven like spears of fire.

When the glittering white-robed angel heard
The sorrowing song of the grieving bird,

And heard the following chant of mirth
That hailed Christ risen again on earth,
He said, "Sweet bird, be forever blest,
Thyself, thy eggs, and thy moss-wreathed nest!"

And ever, my child, since that blessed night,
When Death bowed down to the Lord of Light,
The eggs of that sweet bird change their hue,
And burn with red, and gold, and blue-
Reminding mankind in their simple way
Of the holy marvel of Easter day.

MOTLEY'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED NETHERLANDS.*

THE position of Mr. Motley as a great his firmer grasp of principles, and the command of

a more sinewy and robust style, as well as of more piquant and effective imagery. In philosophic acuteness and subtlety, in minute and delicate analysis, and in broad panoramic views of contemporary history, he may be considered inferior to Bancroft; but he certainly is his equal in the harmonious grouping of events, in the apt coloring of his personal sketches, and the facility and freedom of his narrative. His

and propriety which the refined taste of Prescott never failed to preserve, nor does he always aim with such a vigilant eye at the conditions of picturesque effect; but his pages are suffused with a warmer glow of vitality, the life-blood of generous sympathies lends them a more healthy and vigorous hue, and the animation and energy which they exhibit are less the result of artistic endeavor than of manly earnestness and moral enthusiasm.

torical writer scarcely needed the assurance that is furnished in this magnificent production of his ripened genius. He has brought to the performance of his task the familiar knowledge of the subject that was gained in the researches for his previous work, the diligence that recognizes no obstacle in the investigation of truth, an intense sympathy with the struggles for liberty which form the kindling theme of his discussions, and the boldness and facility of treat-style is not distinguished by the uniform grace ment which results from the consciousness of success and the cordial appreciation of the public. In many respects these volumes may be considered as an advance on the admirable work by which he was first introduced to the world as a historian of singular brilliancy, substance, and vigor. It exhibits a greater profoundness of thought, a wider grasp of conception, and more polished elegance of style; with fewer inequalities of delineation, and less reliance on rhetorical finesse, though with not less striking individuality of expression. His narrative is singularly animated, often in a high degree picturesque, always inspired by genial sympathies, and never approaching even the borders of tameness or commonplace. In the portraiture of character he evinces wonderful skill, frequently revealing by a few adroit touches the secret motives and subtle traits of the most complicated natures. His comments on historical events are marked by generous sentiment: no exhibition of nobleness fails to call forth his admiration; his love of freedom and humanity breathes new life into the decaying forms of the past, and clothes them with the freshness and beauty of the present. No chill is thrown around his pen by indifference to truth; no lurking skepticism paralyzes his eloquence; no sneer at human virtue converts the heroes of history into ghastly skeletons; no demoniac smile spreads a blight over the golden harvests of patriotism, courage, and self-devotion. His spirit is always resolute and hopeful; he shows a cheerful faith in the Providence of God over the destinies of man; and is not ashamed to cherish the dreams of his youth concerning the triumphs of liberty, the glories of virtue, and the dignity of his race.

As compared with the other eminent historians of whom this country is justly proud, Mr. Motley occupies a place of his own; and without attempting to class him according to his relative merits, we may say that he need not shrink from rivalry with those who have won the most brilliant and the most enduring laurels. If he has not the gracious sweetness of diction and the limpid flow of narrative which make the perusal of Washington Irving's writings a perpetual feast, he evinces a more profound historic insight, a

* History of the United Netherlands: From the Death

of William the Silent to the Synod of Dort. By JoHN LOTHROP MOTLEY. 2 vols., 8vo, with Map and Portraits.

Harper and Brothers.

The history opens with the position of the Netherlands at the period immediately succeeding the untimely death of William the SilentJuly 10, 1584. The revolt of the country, which had assumed world-wide proportions, was not merely the rebellion of provinces against a sovereign, but a deep and earnest protest against the invasion of conscience by monarch or pope. Philip the Second, who had attempted to force his rule upon an unwilling people, was at once a despot, a pedant, and a bigot. Destitute of a sound and thorough education, of patient and plodding habits, the victim of ill-health and unbridled passions, he might have been seen, at this time, for seven or eight hours out of the twenty-four, sitting at a writing-table covered with dispatches, seldom speaking, never smiling, laboring like a clerk in the preparation of letters which were charged with the doom of countless millions of men. Under his sanguinary system of government the fields of the Netherlands had been made desolate, their cities burned and pillaged, their men hanged, burned, drowned, or hacked to pieces, and their women subjected to nameless outrages. Clothed with the most extensive and absolute power, as he grew older and weaker in mind and body, Philip seemed to become more gluttonous of work, more ambitious to stretch his sceptre over distant and strange lands, more determined to put an end to Protestantism, which it had been the business of his life to combat, and more eager to destroy every human being that defended heresy or opposed his progress to universal empire.

The contest between the seven meagre provinces of the Netherlands and the great Spanish empire might, at that moment, well have appeared desperate. The magnificent Spanish peninsula stretched across eight degrees of latitude and ten of longitude, commanding the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, warmed in winter by the vast furnace of Africa, and protected from