from death. I saw her in her small coffin, and felt the marble
coldness of her pale brow, and as I saw the coffin descend into the
narrow grave, I turned sadly away with a grief-stricken, and perchance
a better heart. But for many months I could tell the exact number of
nights she had lain buried in the silent grave.

The next morning as I took my seat with a favorite companion, in
the one behind that formerly occupied by her, I almost started as I
fancied that her face was upturned to mine, and those blue orbs rested
upon me.

The dear friend that sat with me, has too, passed away, "and the
places that knew her once upon earth, now know her no more forever."
Rosa was an orphan, having lost both parents; she was the youngest
of four sisters, had an amiable disposition, and was an affectionate
friend. She was married to a wealthy man, and became the mother of
several children; but the destroyer came and bore her from her dear
family to the silent church-yard, and placed her beneath a grassy
mound beside her father and her mother. Sweet is thy memory, friend of
my early days, and very pleasant were the hours we spent together: but
they have passed away with the things that were, and like the rose
leaves that falling fill the air with their perfume, so the fragrance
of those hours still lives.

Next to Rosa Whittier sat Julia Balcolm, with saddened expression of
countenance and large deep blue eyes that gazed upon you with a deeper
expression of melancholly in their glances than is usual to the merry
age of childhood, and elicited your sympathy ere you knew her history.
Julia was a cripple. She was drawn to school by an older sister with
rosy cheeks, bright flashing black eyes, and a sprightly animated