with my husband, but somehow he died, and left me four children and not a dollar. I could work with my head, but not with my hands, so I wrote political articles, and tales for magazines. I wrote whatever I could get paid for, till neuralgic pains put me almost distracted, and the doctor said if I went on writing I should go out of my head." "And what did you do then?" "Then my Rhad learnt to embroider, and I sold her work, and Mr Carter let me have books, and I hawked them from house to house, and at last, when I could not pay my rent, God sent a good spirit to help me. never saw him, but he has paid my rent for years.” "Do you not know that this lady is the wife of your good spirit ?" "Is she?" looking slightly round; "no, I did not; but now she never sits on that chair at her work and talks to me, nor ever lies on that bed sick. She is gone, my bright spot, and I don't know where she is gone to," again searching the ceiling with her restless and misty eye.

I

Poor thing! she had employed herself in patching a pretty cushion of bits of silk during the long nights, while she watched her sick child, "to keep her poor eyes open," as she said, and was ministered to by two young ladies, real sisters of charity, without the garb and badge, and without the vow.

At last consumption, which annually nips its hundreds of the budding and blossoming, finished its work, and the widow's "one bright spot" was darkened. R―― died in her lonely arms, which clasped

her an hour and a half before the poor mourner could admit the belief that she was dead; and in the morning, when the two friends came to visit her, they attended to the last claims of the departed, and left the mourner alone with her sorrow. She told us she sat alone two nights by the shell of her child, and persuaded herself when she perused her countenance at four in the morning, that she had again become rosy. Indeed her monomania turned on the idea that she had not died, but that her spirit had just slipt away, and she didn't know where it had gone to. Her eye invariably wandered vaguely upwards, and her voice fell into the same plaintive cadence when this afflicting thought returned in its force. She read to us some rather poetical verses, which she called "A Voice from the Spirits' Land," in which the daughter addresses the mourner, Weep not for me, mother, weep not for me," and describes her present state of perfect happiness as the reason. told you all those sweet things, Mrs R. ?" dear R. She just came and stood by me there, and dictated it all." "Well, then, you do know where she is, for she says she is in heaven, with angels and saints, and in the presence of her Saviour. So you do know." Poor woman! she was caught by her own shewing, and put to silence. Yet in a few minutes her beamless eye sought the roof, and she was repeating, "I don't know where she is gone to." I have read poetical descriptions of similar hallucinations, but never met with such before.

U

"Who

"My

When we had arisen to depart, after a long visit, she said some old friends had forsaken her, because of a report that she encouraged the Romanists to come about her; but she never did. She could not protect herself from them. Sisters of Mercy had come, and after them a lady, who gave her name, and forced a book upon her poor girl, who would have avoided them, and was disturbed in mind by their talk. At last, one day, she desired this lady to go and not come again. A considerable time after she had shut the door, she was surprised to find her still lingering on the stair, and asked her why she stayed. She prolonged talk, and still seemed to have more and more to say, and by and by the secret reason for her stay was explained. She had made an appointment with the priest, who joined them on the staircase, and offered to see the sick. The mother "honoured his zeal," but politely declined. That proposal failing, he had another. He knew of a medicine that he was sure would cure the invalid. She had a regular medical attendant, and did not require to trouble his reverence. Ah! but he was so sure of the efficacy of his medicine, if he might just go into the room, and write the prescription. The mother said, if he was so sure, he might write it on the fly-leaf of the lady's book. This he did, and the lady undertook to procure and pay for it. It was to cost half-a-dollar. Again the priest tried to enter the sick-room, and he and the lady said, if the girl died without extreme

unction, she would burn in hellfire for ever, with all heretics.

It was striking to mark, as indignation took the place of woe in the widow's heart, how her attenuated and bending form returned to its natural height; how her voice rose and her eyes brightened even in relating their conversation. The dignity of becoming indignation suddenly kindled her whole frame, and you could scarcely identify the drooping creature, dying under the misery of eating grief, who had but just risen from the side of her writing-table.

"I am Protestant," she said; "I don't believe in what you say, and my daughter does not wish for your services." "Then I won't get her this medicine that would cure her." "I would not give her anything you prescribe till I saw it analysed. If I ever wish for you, I will send-for the present, go away." "Then I will call again to-morrow," said the pertinacious persecutor. "You need not-I will not admit you ;" and so, at last, the pair departed, having done what they could, in their view, to save the dying girl from eternal misery.

How unprotected are the poor from these bold impostors, and how unprotected are the rich from the more insidious and ensnaring measures which they adopt in their advances to them! Their perseverance in trying to compass one dying proselyte is a rebuke to the more supine plans of Protestants. Yet this is the sect against which Protestant America can see no cause to be on its guard—the

planters of which are artists, musicians, teachers, domestics, Sisters of Charity, politicians, who unweariedly put in their seed and leave it to grow, while we are asleep in erroneous security.

At last, then, I had seen a really poor native. But it was not squalid-it was respectable poverty -and, in the woe of a wandering mind, independence and gratitude were visible. She uttered no thanks to the "good spirit" who paid her rent-but she sent the silken pillow which she sewed by the couch of her dying child, as a gift to the "good spirit's" wife.

We went a few days after to try to procure her a room in the Home for decayed gentlewomen. But we failed at that time, though very desirous to break up the tribe of associations with that chamber and that bed, and to place the mourner within reach of a little society, if by any means the sorrow which preys on her spirit might be diverted.

The proper name of the institution I allude to has escaped me, and that is not to be regretted, as, of the numerous houses we visited, whether they were philanthropic, educational, or established for purposes of state, this was the solitary instance in which the doors were not cordially thrown open, the economy of the place described, and reports offered. Perhaps the matron was new and unaccustomed to her office or perhaps the person who repulsed us was a bad substitute for the matron. However it was, it gives me great pleasure to think