spirit kissed me. With this _presence_ of beauty and purity around me, I
cannot feel loneliness or discontent.

"Our flowers are so near to us we have become really _intimate_ with
them. We know all their habits, and every insect that harms them. I love
to see the tender tendril of a vine stretch for the string that is
fastened at a little distance for its support, and then wind about it so
gladly. Every morning it is a new excitement to see long festoons of our
green curtains, variegated with trumpet-shaped morning-glories, looking
towards the sun, and mingled with them the scarlet star of the cypress
vine. When my husband comes home wearied and disgusted with Wall-street,
it refreshes his body and soul to look into our "_hanging garden_," and
note new beauties the day has developed. I trust the time and affection
we thus spend are not wasted, for I believe the sentiment of Coleridge's
lines--

'He prayeth best who loveth best
All things, both great and small
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.'

But there is one circumstance that makes this garden precious, which I
have yet to tell you, and you will agree with me that it is the best
part of it. When we were married, my husband was in the habit of
drinking a glass of beer daily. I did not approve of it, and used to
fancy he was apathetic and less agreeable afterwards; but as he was so
fond of it, I made up my mind not to disagree upon the subject. Last
spring, when we wished some flowers, we hesitated on account of the
expense, for we endeavor to be economical, as all young married people
should. Then my husband very nobly said that though one glass of beer