A MOTHER had laid her darling in the earth. Many mothers have done this; it is an every-day occurrence. Myriads of little sculptured forms have been thus laid to rest, with blinding tears,—like little Mary.

  Friends and acquaintances accompany them to "the narrow door," and there they leave them. Not so the mother! Ah! there is an empty crib in the nursery; there is an untenanted chair at the table; there are little frocks hanging up in the wardrobe; there are half-worn shoes about, with the impress of a chubby little foot; there is a little, useless straw hat in the entry; there are toys that have borne its wearer happy company; there are little sisters left,—and they are loved. But, O, not like the dead! It was the first-born, and every mother that reads this will understand the height and breadth, and length and depth of that word. In all the wide earth there is no spot so dear to her as the little mound that covers her child, and she weeps and shudders when the cold wind sweeps past at night, and would fain warm its chilled limbs in the familiar resting-place. She knows the casket is rifled of the gem, but

  So felt my bereaved friend, Emma ——, and the watchful eye of her husband provided her a temporary home near the grave of little Mary. The rough gardener would draw his hand across his eyes, as he passed her every morning, at early dawn, sitting by that little headstone, covering her child with the flowers she loved best; while the uplifted finger and softened tread of the stranger testified his mute sympathy.

  One evening she expressed a desire to go in after the "gates were closed." She was so restlessly miserable that it seemed a cruelty to deny her, and we effected an entrance through a broken palisade. Amid that silent company we were alone! The stars shone on as brightly as when the rayless eyes beneath had looked lovingly and hopefully upon their radiance. The timid little birds fluttered under the leaves as we passed. The perfume of a thousand flowers was borne past us on the night breeze. In that spiritual atmosphere earth seemed to dwindle, and the spirit, like a caged bird, beat against the bars of its prison-house, and longed to try its pinions in a freer air. There was an unearthly expression on Emma's face which recalled me to myself. I gently drew her away from the grave, but no persua-

  Listen! Distinctly, a sweet, childish voice rings out upon the still air: "Mother! mother!" Emma started to her feet,—clasping me tightly,—with lips apart, and eyes fixed in the direction of the sound. Neither spoke; and, though I am no believer in the supernatural, my limbs tottered under me. With trembling finger, Emma silently pointed in an opposite direction. It was no illusion! There was a little figure, in white, gleaming through the darkness, with outstretched arms, and snowy robe, and flowing hair! "Mother! mother!" As it approached nearer, Emma fell heavily to the ground.

  It was long before she recovered from the shock; and yet, dear reader, the solution of the mystery is simple. Her youngest child, escaping from her bed, and the charge of a careless nurse, had started, with childhood's fearless confidence, to seek us in the dim labyrinthine paths of the cemetery.

  Ah, little Minnie! After all, it was "an angel" that we saw, "robed in white," with that shining hair and seraph face!