ess
the sweet creatures in their play, could not but single out one face
among the many fair, so pensive in its paleness, a face to be
remembered, coming from afar, like a mournful thought upon the hour of
joy.

Sister or brother of her own had she none--and often both her
parents--who lived in a hut by itself up among the mossy stumps of the
old decayed forest--had to leave her alone--sometimes even all the day
long from morning till night. But she no more wearied in her
solitariness than does the wren in the wood. All the flowers were her
friends--all the birds. The linnet ceased not his song for her, though
her footsteps wandered into the green glade among the yellow broom,
almost within reach of the spray from which he poured his melody--the
quiet eyes of his mate feared her not when her garments almost touched
the bush where she brooded on her young. Shyest of the winged sylvans,
the cushat clapped not her wings away on the soft approach of such
harmless footsteps to the pine that concealed her slender nest. As if
blown from heaven, descended round her path the showers of the painted
butterflies, to feed, sleep, or die--undisturbed by her--upon the
wildflowers--with wings, when motionless, undistinguishable from the
blossoms. And well she loved the brown, busy, blameless bees, come
thither for the honey-dews from a hundred cots sprinkled all over the
parish, and all high overhead sailing away at evening, laden and
wearied, to their straw-roofed steps in many a hamlet garden. The leaf
of every tree, shrub, and plant, she knew familiarly and lovingly in its
own characteristic beauty; and she was loth to shake one dewdrop from
the sweetbrier rose. And well she knew that all nature loved in
return--that they were dear to each other in their innocence--and that
the very sunshine, in motion or in rest, was ready to come at the
bidding of her smiles. Skilful those small white hands of hers among the
reeds and rushes and osiers--and many a pretty flower-basket grew
beneath their touch, her parents wondering on their return home to see
the handiwork of one who was never idle in her happiness. Thus
early--ere yet but five years old--did she earn her mite for the
sustenance of her own beautiful life. The russet garb she wore she
herself had won--and thus Poverty, at the door of that hut, became even
like a Guardian Angel, with the lineaments of heaven on her brow, and
the quietude of heaven beneath her feet.

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