whereby we build the spiritual one.  The glimpses we here obtain of what such relations should be are to me an earnest that the family is of Divine Order, and not a mere school of preparation.  And in the state of perfect being which we call Heaven, I am assured that family ties will attain to that glorified beauty of harmonious adaptation, which stellar groups in the pure blue typify.’

Margaret’s admirable fidelity, as daughter and sister,—­amidst her incessant literary pursuits, and her far-reaching friendships,—­can be justly appreciated by those only who were in her confidence; but from the following slight sketches generous hearts can readily infer what was the quality of her home-affections.

’Mother writes from Canton that my dear old grandmother is dead.  I regret that you never saw her.  She was a picture of primitive piety, as she sat holding the “Saint’s Rest” in her hand, with her bowed, trembling figure, and her emphatic nods, and her sweet blue eyes.  They were bright to the last, though she was ninety.  It is a great loss to mother, who felt a large place warmed in her heart by the fond and grateful love of this aged parent.’

’We cannot be sufficiently grateful for our mother,—­so so fair a blossom of the white amaranth; truly to us a mother in this, that we can venerate her piety.  Our relations to her have known no jar.  Nothing vulgar has sullied them; and in this respect life has been truly domesticated.  Indeed, when I compare my lot with others, it seems to have had a more than usual likeness to home; for relations have been as noble as sincerity could make them, and there has been a frequent breath of refined affection, with its sweet courtesies.  Mother thanks God in her prayers for “all the acts of mutual love which have been permitted;” and looking back, I see that these have really been many.  I do not recognize this, as the days pass, for to my desires life would be such a flower-chain of symbols, that what is done seems very scanty, and the thread shows too much.

’She has just brought me a little bouquet.  Her flowers have suffered greatly by my neglect, when I would be engrossed by other things in her absences.  But, not to be disgusted or deterred, whenever she can glean one pretty enough, she brings it to me.  Here is the bouquet,—­a very delicate rose, with its half-blown bud, heliotrope, geranium, lady-pea, heart’s-ease; all sweet-scented flowers!  Moved by their beauty, I wrote a short note, to which this is the reply.  Just like herself![B]

’"I should not love my flowers if they did not put forth all the strength they have, in gratitude for your preserving care, last winter, and your wasted feelings over the unavoidable effects of the frost, that came so unexpectedly to nip their budding beauties.  I appreciate all you have done, knowing at what cost any plant must be nourished by one who sows in fields more