But your infantile mind was most impressed with the face which much of the time hovered over you.

Other women sometimes looked in at the child, and said: "That child's hair will be red!" or, "What a peculiar chin!" or, "Do you think that child will live to grow up ?" and although you were not old enough to understand their talk, by instinct you knew it was something disagreeable, and began to cry till the dear, sweet, familiar face again hovered and the rainbow arched the sky.

Oh, we never get away from the benediction of such a face! It looks at us through storm and night.

It smiles all to pieces the world's frown.

After thirty-five years of rough, tumbling on the world's couch, it puts us in the cradle again, and hushes us as with the very lullaby of heaven.
Let the old cradle rest in the garret.