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In June last, Dr. De Kroyft was seized with hemorrhage of the lungs. He sent for me and I came to him. Every day his lips grew whiter, and the deep paleness on his brow alarmed me. Now, in a half-coughing tone, I hear him say, Helen, I fear the hand of consumption is settling on me, and my days will soon be numbered. On the afternoon of the Fourth he visited me, went out, and returned no more. Our wedding-day came. It was his wish, and by his bedside our marriage was confirmed. Soon after I saw him die. They laid him in the ground, and I heard the fresh dirt rattle on his narrow home, and felt as if my hold on life had left me. I lingered in R--- a few weeks longer. How I got through the days I do not know. William's room, his books, and the garden where I wept, are all I remember, until I awoke one morning and my eyes were swollen tight together. I could no more move them, or lift up the lids, than roll the mountains from their places. They were swollen with an inflammation that three days after made me for ever blind -- oh, the word! Like the thunders of Niagara it was more than I could hear. Thus, dear Clara, in simplicity; I have told you all. No, not the half. Words can never reach the feelings that swell my heart, imagination can never paint them. They are known only to me. Sorrow, melancholy, blighted hopes, wounded love, grief and despair, clad in hues of darkness, all brood upon my silent heart, and bitter fear is in all my thoughts. Oh, what will become of me? Is there benevolence in this world? Must charity supply my wants? Will there be always some hand to lead me? Have the blind ever a home in any heart? Does any thing ever cheer them? Are their lives always useless? Is there any thing they can do? So I question, and wonder, until with morphine they quiet my distracted thoughts. When my eyes were swelling as if they would quit their sockets, and my entire being was racked with pain, forgive me, Clara, I did question if there be a God in heaven who is always merciful. But to-day, in the calmness of better feelings, my confidence is unmoved, and "though he slay me, yet will I trust in him." Though I do not feel all the self-abnegation of Fenelon, yet I am certain my heavenly Father loves me, and will grant me ever his protecting care and sustaining grace. Adieu, but think of me, and pray for me sometimes.

P. S. Dear Clara: -- This is the first letter I have prompted to any one, and is it possible that I am never again to write with my own hand, or read the letters of my friends when they come? Oh God! save me, lest I murmur. You must write my dear mother, Clara, and comfort her, for I cannot. *****

Institution for the Blind.

DEAR ELIZA: -- To-morrow you will leave school, you say, to return "never more." Solemn words. When our lovely parent Eve made her last round of delight in her garden home, played gently with her sportive fawns, pressed kisses on her flowers, and lingered by Eden's meandering streams, whose murmurs seemed a lower strain, blending sweetly with the songs of her caressing birds, she smiled sadly on all she loved, and passing hurriedly the closing gate, the words of the protecting Angel tell on her ear -- "Never more!" "never more!" They went on, Adam and Eve, beautiful though fallen; thorns grew up in their paths, but memory, ever wont to dwell on what is pleasing, often reverted to lovely Eden, its laughing brooks and fountains, where seraphs had been their familiar guests; but Eve could only sigh "never more!" The winds and the zephyrs caught the melancholy air, and to the farthest verge of time echo's last response will be -- "Never more," "never more," When first the fountain of a mother's feelings was stirred, looking despairingly on the form of her child, cold in death, the Angels beheld what till then they had never seen, a spirit or mortal weeping for that which may return, never more. Tears are the language of feeling, the dews that water love, and keep it alive when its leaves would wither.

Eliza, believe me, it is better that you learn early what hardships are, and how to meet life's many ills. Begin now to share another's woe, and help to bear the burden under which thy neighbor may be sinking. Check often thy mirth and go to the house of mourning, and school thy buoyant voice to speak soothingly to the distressed. Life is not a dream. Young or old, we have always something to do, and something to bear. Our work too is here, and the voice of beseeching suffering calls us to it, and the cry of love and philanthropy is, "Come over and help us." Fields of usefulness are as many as the doors which enter the abodes of the poor. And have you nothing to do? Shall your hands be busy only to adorn your frail body and twine garlands of flowers? Have you no energies of heart and mind to spend in the great work of self-culture, and the amelioration of mankind? The terms you have passed at school, have enriched your heart with enlightened feelings, and stored your mind with new and aspiring thoughts; you have received new impulses to your progressive nature, and enlargement of your mental and moral capacities, for which you are answerable, and will be held responsible to the great Father of mankind. The philanthropic Howard, speaking of a young friend, said, "She taught me to forget myself and live for my neighbor." Her morning and evening visits to the poor were simple in themselves, but in their effects you see they were boundless and lasting as eternity. When Henry Martin's sister hung affectionately about his neck, entreating him with all the earnestness of tears to remain with her, he replied: "Sister, the Saviour you taught me to love has a work for me in a heathen land, and I shall go to it, trusting your prayers and His love will sustain me there." Such homebound efforts and examples are swelling springs in the hillside, whence flow multiplying and fertilizing streams, whose healthful influences are felt throughout the world. They are seeds planted here to blossom in a higher, holier life. Now while you are lingering on ground so hallowed, so sacred to the heart and memory of both teacher and scholar, would that some heaven-born resolve, worthy the place and the hour, might find a lodgment in your thoughts, and a resting place in your heart. It is the misfortune of some to be ever vacillating between good purposes and their non-performance. If you would be truly useful, continued and persevering action must mark your every course. Take unto thyself then a standard of what is right, and make all else yield thereunto. Then, what though thy smiles fade and tears come in their stead, and the world frown darkly on thee, if so there be no clouds between thee and thy God?