Perhaps, however, this is a favorable occasion to lay before the reader what was written by a poor pen, in after years, about the child, by one who had loved, and been rendered purer by her.

Some one, no matter who, had said to him one day--"Tell me about little Redbud, whom you praise so much"-- and he had taken his pen and written-- "How can I?
There are some figures that cannot be painted, as there are some melodies which cannot be uttered by the softest wind which ever swept the harp of Aeolus.

You can scarcely delineate a star, and the glories of the sunset die away, and live not upon canvas.

How difficult, then, the task you have imposed upon me, _amigo mio_--to seal up in a wicker flask that moonlight; chain down, by words, that flitting and almost imperceptible perfume--to tell you anything about that music which, embodied in a material form, was known as Redbud! "Observe how I linger on the threshold, and strive to evade what I have promised to perform.

What can I say of the little friend who made so many of my hours pure sunshine?
She was the most graceful creature I have ever seen, I think, and surely merrier lips and eyes were never seen--eyes very blue and soft--hair golden, and flowing like sunset on her shoulders--a mouth which had a charming archness in it--and withal an innocence and modesty which made one purer.