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THE ONE TRUE CONVERT.

SOME who read this sketch will remember a lady, not many years since a resident of the West, whose great personal beauty and varied attractions were less remarkable than the simplicity of her manners, and her apparent unconsciousness that she was either beautiful or attractive. I lately became acquainted with an incident of this lady's early history, which may not be without interest, even to those that never met her.

When about thirteen years old, she was placed at school in a small New England village, the clergyman of which was a relative of her father; and she lived, of course, in the pastor's family. In that family was also residing a young student of divinity, one of those bashful Northern youths, who blush when their mothers speak to them, and tremble when a strange face draws nigh, - one of that class from which have come many of the purest and noblest of New England's sons, but a large proportion of which, after struggles and sufferings of which the world has no record, droop, and in silence pass away. Leonard was awkward, reserved, and diffident; the coming of a little girl to the table made him for a while unhappy, and he listened before he opened his door for fear he should meet her on the stairs. This continued for some time; for though the bright, quiet, fearless child produced a pleasant impression

upon him, he could not shake off his horror of a new person in the house; and three months after they had been first sheltered by the same roof, he would have gone a mile round in the dusty road, or would have crossed the wet fields of a dewy morning, rather than pass his fellow-boarder as she tripped to her school-room.

But so lovely and loving a damsel as the one I write of could not remain averse to him. With surprise, and almost terror, Leonard found himself looking at her, as she sat reading under the trees, for ten minutes at a time. Then he offered her the milk-pitcher, or a baked apple, as they sat opposite to each other at the tea-table. By and by he spoke. to her; explained to her dark passages in the books she was reading, and called her attention to books she had not before heard of. The grass plat under the elm was no longer the less pleasant because she was chasing the butterflies there; and more than once the villagers met him at evening walking with her by the rocky river, holding her slight fingers with one hand, and with the other pointing out the constellations, the Dipper, Cleopatra's Chair, and all the wonders of night. Slowly, unaware to himself, and wholly beyond her dreams, a strong interest, deepening into affection for her, grew up in Leonard's bosom. When she was present he was happy, though he looked the other way; when she was absent his heart fell down, the sun had no brightness, the air no freshness, for him.

Month after month rolled by, and every day broke upon the student with new glory, for his little friend came to him each day with increased frankness, and he, on his part, was ever more kind to her and to others; for it is one of the many blessed consequences of love in a healthy spirit, that it makes it more kindly to the whole world.

Month after month rolled by; the time drew near for the student to go to his college, and he counted calmly, but with a full heart, the days that were to pass before his depart

ure.

Day went after day; and now but two remained before he was to be separated, probably for ever, from the first human being who had taken a strong hold of his slow but deep affections.

In the afternoon of the second day before his departure, as he was sitting musing in his room, his little friend came in. He had been with her that day upon some long talked of expedition, and had been kinder than usual; and with a bright eye and kindling cheek, she now thanked him for his kindness.

"What have I done that you should be so good to me?” said she.

"You have been good to others," replied Leonard. “And how can I repay you?" asked the little girl. For some minutes the young man was silent; then, taking both her hands in his, he said, "My dear little girl, in a few hours you and I are to separate, perhaps for ever in this life; and I will tell you all that I would ever ask you to do in return for whatever kindness I have been able to show you; it is to be true to yourself, to your own pure and high impulses. In a few years you will go into society; you will be told that you are beautiful, amiable, talented; every temptation that would lead you to forget that there is an eternal life beyond this will be thrown in your way. When those days come, remember what I have so often said to you respecting the eternal nature of true affection, and seek it; remember the short-lived nature of admiration, and shun it. When flatterers are telling you (as they will tell you) of your perfections, do not forget that you are still as far from perfection as from those stars about which we have talked together so often; think, my dear girl, in that hour, of those ever-burning worlds, and the thought will shield you from harm." He kissed her forehead, and she left him.

In due time Leonard went to Andover; he there completed his theological education, and became, at length, the

clergyman of his native village. Seven years passed on; during five of them he heard nothing of her whose form often floated before him in the light of the autumn sunset, and whose voice he heard in the still summer twilight and the dark storm of winter. But in the sixth year after he left her uncle's house, rumors came from Boston of one, now about to enter the fashionable world, whose beauty and whose character were unequalled. The familiar name made his heart leap to his throat, and now again at midnight his voiceless prayer went up for the child he had loved so well. Whenever a stranger came from the city, Leonard listened, half in fear, half in hope, for news of her welfare. Was she loved by those about her? or, was she a belle merely? As those questions were answered, his thoughts were pleasant or disturbed.

He had long been an invalid, and for a year or two the evidences of pulmonary disease were such as to lead his society to offer him leave of absence for the winter; this he had refused to accept, however, as his widowed mother would be left alone. The agitation of feeling produced by the revival of his old affection now added to the symptoms of his disease; he became too weak to preach, and, after much persuasion, was induced to leave home for a warmer climate. By the advice of his physician, he went to Boston to take passage for Florida.

While at Boston, he was invited to a party, at which were many of the leaders of fashion, though the lady of the house was by no means one of them. Leonard went, with

"Hopes, and fears that kindle hope,"

nor had he been long in the room before his eye fell upon one, whom, through the change of years, he knew to be her whose unconscious influence over him had been so great. Turning to an acquaintance, he asked her name.

"She is one," was the answer, "who seems to live in

a magic circle. The sneers of society stop when they come to her in their round of abuse, and go by silently; scandal cannot touch her. She is admired, of course, but loved far more than admired; and the impure, that cannot love, fear her. Flattery falls upon her, but does no harm; and our common fops dare not approach her with their empty compliments, for her simple, sincere spirit overawes them."

The young divine stood long with his eyes fixed on the form which in its girlhood he had so loved to look on, every breath he drew marking the pulsation of his heart, and his head throbbing as in a fever. By and by he moved nearer to her. A man distinguished and talented sat by her side, and with the greatest skill addressed to her the most flattering remarks, and listened to her replies as to an oracle; but not a word or look on her part betrayed a consciousness of the admiration which he expressed. When he left her, a female friend that had listened to him said to her, "How in the world is it that such attentions, from such a man, do not prove too much for your philosophy ? " "It is because my philosophy asks love which will live, not admiration, which will die."

"But how do you keep such things in mind at such a moment ?

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"I will tell you," answered the fair girl, smiling; " but what I say will have no meaning to you, though there is one somewhere who would understand me. When my head begins to swim, I think of the STARS.

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Not a word of that reply escaped the invalid, as he stood behind her; the throbbing in his head ceased, his heart was still, his spirit at rest. "I have saved her," he said to himself, and soon returned to his lodgings.

The next morning he left, not for Florida, but for home; he told his mother that he was well again, and for a week or two appeared strong and happy. Then came the reac

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