Our pretty one is gone, and, wife,
    'Tis time for me to go:
Our Golden-heart has gone to sleep,
    She's happed in for the night;
And so to bed I'll quietly creep,
    And sleep till morning light.'"

Once more poor Margaret arose,
    And passed into the night:
Long shadows weird of tree and house
    Made ghosts i' the wan moonlight!
She passed into the churchyard, where
    The many glad life-waves
That leap'd of old, have stood still there,
    In green and grassy graves.

"Oh, would my body were at rest
    Under this cool grave sward!
Oh, would my soul were with the blest,
    That slumber in the Lord!
They sleep so sweetly underground,
    For death hath shut the door,
And all the world of sorrow and sound
    Can trouble them no more."

A spirit feel is in the place,
    That makes the poor heart gasp;
Her soul stands white up in her face
    For one warm human clasp!
To-night she sees the grave astir,
    And, as in prayer she kneels,
The mystery opens unto her:
    She for the first time feels

The spirit world may be as near
    Her, moving silent round,
As are the dead that sleep a mere
    Short fathom underground.
And there be eyes that see the sight
    Of lorn ones wandering, vexed
Through some long, sad, and shadowy night
    Betwixt this world and next.

Doorways of fear are eye and ear,
    Through which the wonders go;
And through the night with glow-worm light,
    The church is all aglow!
There comes a waft of Sabbath hymn;
    She enters: all the air
With faces fills, divine and dim,
    The blessed dead are there.

One came and bade poor Margaret sit,
    Seemed to her as it smiled,
A great white bird of God alit
    From the marble forest wild.
"Look to the altar!" there a spell
    Fixed her; she saw up start
A woman, like a soul in hell:
    'Twas her own Golden-heart.

"It would have been thus, mother dear,
    And so God took her, from
All trials and temptations here,
    To His eternal home;
And you shall see her in a place
    Where death can never part."
She looked up in that angel's face:
    'Twas her own Golden-heart.

The lofty music rose again
    From all those happy souls,
Till all the windows thrilled, as when
    The organ thunder rolls;
And all her life is like a light
    Weak weed the stream doth sway
Until it reaches its full height,
    Breaks, and is borne away.

Her life stood still to listen to
    That music! then a hand
Took hers, and she was floated through
    The mystic border-land.
'Twas Golden-heart! from that eclipse
    She drew her into bliss:
Two spirits closed at dying lips,
    In one immortal kiss.

Next day, an early worshipper
    Was kneeling in the aisle;
A statue of life that did not stir,
    But knelt on with a smile
Upon the face that smiled with light,
    As though, when left behind,
It smiled on with some glorious sight,
    Long after the eyes were blind.

A BEAUTIFUL DEVIL.

ANGÉLIQUE TIQUET is the heroine of an old
and prolix chronicle, from which is compiled the
following true romance.

Her father, Jean Auguste Carlier, having some
capital, entered into partnership with a rich old
bookseller and jeweller of Metz, whose only
child he subsequently married. The old man
died soon after the marriage, bequeathing his
whole property to his daughter and son-in-law,
whose careful habits daily added to its bulk.
Madame Carlier died eight years after marriage,
leaving a daughter of seven (this Angélique),
and a two-year old son, named Auguste.
Carlier did not marry again, but lived for his children.
He was a man of some learning, and when the
shop was closed in the evening, employed
himself in teaching his boy and girl, who both had
quick abilities. Madame de Remonet, an aunt
of the deceased Madame Carlier, had been one
of the loveliest women of her time, and, although,
belonging to the bourgeoisie, had captivated the
fancy of a youth of rank, who, in spite of the
opposition of his friends, made her his wife, and
obtained a post at court, where madame's beauty,
wit, and talents for intrigue, forced her into
favour. In those days, when Anne of Austria,
in the pomp of her regency, was outraging
decorum, the standard of public opinion in France
demanded no high principle of conduct.
Madame lived, therefore, a brilliant and heedless
life until the sudden death of her husband left
her with a pension far too small to supply the
luxuries to which she was accustomed. Yet
she made no visible change, except to become
more reckless in her mode of life, till after a few
more years, when the death or estrangement of
some of her patrons, and a severe illness, which
seemed all at once to anticipate the work of
age, caused her to think of some certainty of
a home for her declining years. Her relations
in Metz had, of course, been neglected; but as
she knew her brother and niece to be dead, and
her nephew to be wealthy, she determined to
proceed to Metz, and make herself, if possible,
a fixture there. At Metz she was so amiable to
her nephew-in-law, so motherly with the children,
and seemed to be so happy in their company,
that Carlier, whose comforts were the greater
for her care of his household, offered her a home