"Never here! forever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death and time shall disappear,
Forever there! but never here."

The moon was at its full. It illuminated the undulating sea, and the white sand which the curling billows washed. We are thankful for this "brief, thoughtful season by the

sea."

We hope to return stronger in spirit for it, and better prepared by it for the duties of life. Our blessed Saviour scarcely allowed himself retirement, except in the hours that he stole for prayer at midnight. Born in a crowd, dying in a crowd as he did, should we his disciples pine for what he scarcely enjoyed? The whole tenor of the Bible inculcates a life of active duty, and of sympathy and companionship with our fellow-creatures. Let

us, then, in the midst of our regrets, remember the excellent advice of one who says to us,

"Think not of rest, though dreams be sweet;
Start up and ply your heavenward feet."

PART II.-WILDERSTEIN.

CHAPTER I.

THE PLACE AND ITS MEMORIES.

"For around it

All the saints and guardian angels
Throng in legions to protect it."

JULY brought its usual longings for country scenes and pure air. Like the "Judge" of Whittier,

We closed our eyes upon garnish'd rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover blooms.

As the omnibus rattled past, and the
street-venders bawled their wares,
we thought of singing birds and
lapsing waters.
When we passed
the weary, shadeless hay-market, by
contrast we remembered the green
fields in which the contents of those

loaded wagons grew. Every glimpse of nature which the town afforded only made us think more lovingly of the cool, sequestered country, with its shaded farm-houses and its quiet woods. Willmott, in his "SummerTime in the Country," says, "If the attics and alleys of London could speak, they would tell how the old familiar haunts of youth and manhood return upon the heart; how the woodbine, flaunting before the cottage window, now hangs its white clusters down the damp walls of the cellar."

Did not our hearts attest the truth of this remark? Did not imagination, the enchanter, bring the brightly-flowing Hudson before our eyes, even here in this dry and dusty city? and instead of brick walls upon the opposite side of the street, did we

not see the garden at Wilderstein in all its odorous beauty?

Well, to Wilderstein we went, one bright and joyous summer day. The quiet of nature appeared to penetrate our souls as we approached the place. Again we entered the orchard, and by a winding, turf-bordered path proceeded to the house, which, much shaded by trees, appeared wrapped in a soft and shadowy light. It seemed like a pleasant dream to be so suddenly transported from glare and noise into the very heart of the country.

We remember the first morning that we saw Wilderstein. By a mistake which we could never regret, the carriage which was to have met us at the wharf was delayed, and a long walk brought us to the house. That quiet morning walk is now be