and heart — a tenderly nurtured, gentle, loving little soul, whose very delicacy and helplessness endeared her to her more robust brothers and sisters and made her the darling of her parents. There was one especially who loved her dearly, and would have deemed it a blessed privilege to have been permitted to devote his entire life to her happiness. Ah! hers was a happy home, and bright were life's prospects before her, but still she was not content — there was something she felt she ought to do for God, she knew not what, and she thought and worried and prayed. But at last she made up her mind; she plainly heard her heavenly Spouse saying to her: " Arise, My beloved, and come." So she laid aside her rich worldly attire, and gave up her portion of the inheritance, and without sob or tear she bade adieu to her parents and family and entered the convent. There she has spent several of the happiest years of her life; years of toil and privation that would have shattered many a stouter frame; years of tender devotion to God's little ones and God's poor; years of prayer and intimate communion with God. And there we find her to-night, in the convent, dying. Attired as a Sister she sits in an armchair, for it distresses her to lie down, waiting for her heavenly Spouse to say once more: "Arise, My beloved, and come." The lamp is shaded, and the intense silence is broken only by the labored breathing of the patient, or the ticking of the clock, or the click of a rosary as the silent Sisters come and go. And presently the priest arrives with the Blessed Sacrament to prepare that soul for
