I was lying on the sofa, still in the same room; the lights we had read by in the evening were burning on the table; my son was kneeling at my pillow, and we two were alone.
THE MORNING.
THE wind is fainter, but there is still no calm.

The rain is ceasing, but there is still no sunshine.

The view from my window shows me the mist heavy on the earth, and a dim gray veil drawn darkly over the sky.
Less than twelve hours since, such a prospect would have saddened me for the day.

I look out at it this morning, through the bright medium of my own happiness, and not the shadow of a shade falls across the steady inner sunshine that is poring over my heart.
The pen lingers fondly in my hand, and yet it is little, very little, that I have left to say.

The Purple Volume lies open by my side, with the stories ranged together in it in the order in which they were read.
My son has learned to prize them already as the faithful friends who served him at his utmost need.