nd, whom she never yet has seen, p. 45,
and her account of her love affairs, p. 49; and if we had discretionary
editorship, and the volume had been written by one having always had her
sight, we should unhesitatingly exclude such passages. But, as the records
of the impressions, consciousnesses and general mental phenomena of a
blind girl _in love_, they stand to be, perhaps, quoted hereafter in some
abstruse scientific treatise, or bloom out in some perennial poem.

There is an immediate practical usefulness in such a book as this. It has
its wholesome lesson for the young. It shows what strength of character
and vigor of purpose will accomplish under even extraordinary
embarrassments. The young lady had a hard early life. She had neither
friends nor money nor sight, but she unwhiningly took up the task of
taking care of herself, and discharged it so nobly as to make for herself
a wide circle of friends, and keep for herself that sense of self-reliance
as toward man, and of faith as toward God, which are worth more than all
the dirty dollars that wickedness can give to weakness.

Let our young women who are in straitened circumstances, in circumstances
that seem absolutely exclusive of all hope of retaining virtue and keeping
life, read this book and its predecessor, and pluck up faith and hope. Let
all our young ladies, daughters of loving parents, daughters who have no
care for the morrow, daughters of delicious ease and happy opportunity,
read this book, and then let their consciences ask them how they are to
carry their idleness to be examined at the judgment sent of Christ, in
contrast with this blind girl's industry, fidelity and perseverance.

CHARLES F. DEEMS.
CHURCH OF THE STRANGERS,
New York, 4th July, 1878.

CHAPTER I.

"Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise,
And what they do, or suffer, men record;
While the long sacrifice of woman's days
Passes without a thought, without a word:
And many a holy struggle for the sake
Of duty, _sternly_, _faithfully_ fulfil'd;
For which the anxious soul must watch and wait,
Goes by unheeded as the summer wind,
And leaves no _memory_, and no trace behind!
Yet, it may be, more lofty courage dwells
In one meek heart that braves an adverse fate,
Than his whose ardent soul indignant swells,
Warmed by the fight, or cheered through high debate.
The soldier dies surrounded; could he _live
Alone_ t