rest there till we were alone again. Then
the repressed spirits would break forth, and
she was once more gleeful and joyous.

Early in the morning I would wake, and
behind the half-drawn curtain, watch her
playing, silently, lest she should disturb me,
in the dewy garden. Wandering to and fro,
with her hands crossed behind her, now
pausing before this or that flower, smelling
it, sucking the pearled drops that lay in its
cup; then racing away suddenly, wild with
strong young life, prancing and plunging in
imitation of a high-mettled steed, or chasing
the kitten that was not more graceful or
lithe of limb than she.

And so on, till the opening of my lattice
announced that I was astir, O, the sunshine
of the radiant face! She had her mother's
wondrous eyes, but with a fine fair English
complexion and warm, light-brown English
hair. Then pit-a-pat up the narrow staircase,
came the quick step, the door was
flung open, and in two bounds she was on my
bed, hugging and kissing me, laughing, patting
my cheeks, laying her sweet cool face
against mine, and chattering the strange
mingled dialect between French and English,
that was sweeter in my ears than purest
Tuscan.

Then off again, like a butterfly, opening
my books, putting my watch to her ear, and
looking solemnly curious at the sound;
turning over my clothes, scribbling wild
flourishes on my paper with pen or pencil,
and, quick as flight of bird, away again to
announce to Nannie that " le grand chère,"
the great darling, was awake, and so hungry,
so hungry for his breakfast.

And so through the day, however I might
be occupied, she was never away from me for
an hour. Light and restless, like some
winged thing, she was to and fro, up and
down in the house and garden, all the live-long
day; dancing, singing, talking to herself,
when I was too occupied to attend to
her; no more disturbing me in my busiest
hours than the sunshine that streamed in at
my window, or the swallows that built and
chirped in the eaves above it. Long walks
we used to take together, she bounding by
my side, now clinging to my hand, now
springing off after wild-flower or berry, till
lap and arms were full; all beaming and
joyous until a beggar came in sight; then the
bright face would lengthen, the step slacken,
and the small money I always carried in
my pocket to provide against such emergencies,
was brought into request, and
given with willing hand and gentle words
of pity and condolence, and for some paces
further the little heart and brain were yet
oppressed with the impression of the sight of
suffering.

In the evenings, by the dying sunlight or
the winter fire, she would climb to my
knee, claiming a story; and, while I related
some remembered history, or improvised some
original one, there she sat, with raptured
face, gazing on mine, those eyes so full of
wondering interest, those ruby lips apart,
showing the glistening teeth; putting in now
and then some earnest question, pausing long
at the close of the narrative to muse over it
and fully digest certain points that had made
a deeper impression than the rest of the tale.
Then, as the light fell and the stillness of
evening deepened into night, the head
drooped on my breast, and, like a folded
flower, the blossom that brightened and
perfumed my lonely life, slept quietly, while
I, sad and silent, wandered mournfully over
the past.

I look back now to that period of my life,
and again it is not I whom I see sitting there
before me. It is one I knew, whose affections,
cares, and troubles were as my own to
me; but whose thoughts, opinions, and aspirations
were quite other than those I now hold,
and on which I now act. The child seems
hardly real, distinctly as I remember every
—the slightest—detail concerning her; she
comes before me in my lonely hours like the
remembrance of some vivid dream dreamed
long ago; some vision sent to cheer and
brighten my pathway through some long past
stage of an existence that then seemed drawing
on to its close.

We know so little what we can live
through and over, till the present is merged
in the things that have been! till the pages
on which are inscribed in black letter the
great griefs of our lives are turned, and those
that contain pleasanter passages are laid
over them!

Mabel had achieved her tenth year before
I had reached my thirtieth birthday; and all
that time we had never been a day separated;
had never lived any other life than the
life I have been describing.

I had taught her to read and write, Nannie
had taught her to sew; but other accomplishments
she had none. Partly that strange
jealousy of other interference, partly a horror
I could not control of subjecting my fairy
to the drudgery of learning, made me shrink
from calling in other aid to advance her
education. It was better that it should be so.
I am always glad now to think that I did as
I had done.

My child had been lent me, not given.
For ten years her blessed and soothing,
purifying and holy influence was granted to
tame and save me. For ten years God spared
one of his angels to lead me through the first
stages to Heaven!

The task accomplished, He saw fit to recall
the loan.

It is thirty years and upwards now, since
Mabel died.

I have buried another wife since then, and
two fair children; and four more yet remain
to me.

They are good, dear children to me, none
better; and handsome boys and girls too.