Others might have thought it the wind sighing through the leafy lattice-work; but the presence of angels was real to me,--and who can say they were not hovering there?
That scene is past, but its remembrance is undying.

The little cottage is inhabited by strangers.

The grass grows rank near the brink of the fountain, and the mossy stone once moistened by my tears has rolled down and choked its gushing.

My mother sleeps by the side of the faithful Peggy, beneath a willow that weeps over a broken shaft,--fitting monument for a broken heart.
I will not dwell on the desolation of orphanage.

It cannot be described.
My Maker only knows the bitterness of my grief for days, weeks, even months.