Oh! what a relieving shower! It was the thunder-shower of the tropics, not the slow, drizzling rain of colder climes.

I wept till the pillow was as wet as the turf on which the heavens have been weeping.

I clasped it to my bosom as a shield against invisible foes, but there was no _sympathy_ in its downy softness.

I sighed for a pillow beneath whose gentle heavings the heart of human kindness beats, I yearned to lay my head on a mother's breast.

Yea, cold and breathless as it was now, beneath the clods of the valley, it would still be a sacred resting-place to me.