ceased for a time: we may, indeed, hope that the better pårt has conquered, and that there may be lasting peace within. Nevertheless, he has work to do: all is not done when one submits to the Higher Powers; one must work with them and in them." The conversation was interrupted by the voice of one singing. We listened a moment, and Uncle John said: "It is poor Kate." She but poor Kate shall have a short Chapter of

was

her own.

15*

CHAPTER XVII.

POOR KATE.

SHE sang in a plaintive, longing tone the following

verses.

The Sparrow hovers round her nest
And gladly welcomes home her mate;
In loving union they are blest: -
Come Willy, come again to Kate.

Oh, could I hear his gladsome voice,
And his sweet breath breathe in again,
And in his looks of love rejoice,

I'd be once more as I have been.

It cannot be; no voice of love

Echoes the feeling of

my heart;

Lone through Life's weary round I move,

And ceaseless ask; may I depart?

The singer was near us but hid from view by a close board fence. When she ceased to sing, Uncle John, saying he must speak to her, opened a narrow gate and we stepped through it. She was sitting on the ground, but rose when we came in sight. Her whole appearance, at a little distance, was nowise note-worthy, except that bows of pink-colored ribbon were fastened in too great quantity to many parts of her otherwise neat dress. Her pale

face had no remarkable feature save her blue eyes; which, when we came nearer, had a somewhat wild, uneasy look. Uncle John saluted her kindly, and took her hand in his own. A light red color tinged her cheek when she asked, glancing at me, "did you hear my song?" and her cheek faded again when he answered; that we had heard only few words of it. He asked her to walk home with him and take tea with his nieces: she replied: she could not; they told her she must always come home before dark; she did not know why: she used once to stay out of doors evenings. "If William would come home," she continued very earnestly, "I could stay out every pleasant evening."— She turned quickly to me and asked ; "Do you think he will come Sir?" I was trying to frame an answer when she exclaimed: "Is'nt it like a ship? see, all the sails are spread!" She pointed to a large white cloud in which one not predisposed to see a ship could trace nothing like one. She spoke again in a mournful tone: "there, it is changing now: every thing changes and he don't come yet: 'tis so long : my ribbons grow old, and fade, and I get new ones, but he don't He used to say I looked pretty in pink." busied herself putting in order some of the ribbons, which her walk through bushes had disarranged, and Uncle John enquired about her parents' health; invited her to visit at his house often, assuring her she would be always welcome. She thanked him, but gave, apparently, little heed to his words. "Hist!" she said, "'tis that poor bird again; I heard it last night." She walked quickly away toward the quarter whence came the sad notes of a bird that had lost its mate or its young. As she went she sang:

come.

She

All alone, alone,
No one to comfort me;

To griefs ever prone

Till Death sets me free.

Far away, away,

Is rest for the weary;

For that ever pray;

This life is dreary.

She stopped under some fruit-trees a little way off, and seemed to be looking for the bereaved bird. After a-while she seated herself and sang again, a mournful ditty, of which we could not distinguish the words. She rose, looked some few minutes towards the western sky, where the Sun was setting behind a mass of dark lead-colored clouds, and then walked homeward.

"Poor girl," said Uncle John, “her only comfort is the singing of her sorrow it is the only way in which she can disburthen her heart."

As we walked homeward I learned some part of Kate's story. She is the only child of her parents, to whom several others had been born, but all died in infancy save this one. As too often happens in such cases, every wish of this only child had been too much indulged. That discipline, too, which arises where many children live together and each one, alternately, must in some way yield to another, was wanting here.

Some three years ago her lover left the village to seek his fortune on the ocean. He sailed away on a long voyage, and nearly a year after his departure a letter from him reached her. It told her, among other things, that himself would soon follow it: within a month he would be with her again, and then they would marry. Kate was a glad girl that day, and commenced preparation for

her wedding; but her lover came not at the appointed time; he came not ever; nor did there come tidings of the ship he sailed in: she had probably foundered at sea. Kate looked out day after day, and month after month, in vain. Hope deferred, it hath often been said, maketh the heart sick; and heart and head are intimately, mysteriously connected. Poor Kate became possessed by one feeling, one idea.

This manifold existence, with its cares and duties and joys, ceased to be manifold to her. In her mind there is only one Image: all others are accidental, trivial; they are not except as related to this one: she is beside herself.