CHAPTER XIX.
THE SICK ROOM.
If ever angels walked on weary earth
In human likeness, thou wert one of them.
Thy native heaven was with thee, but subdued
By suffering life's inevitable lot;
But the sweet spirit did assert its home
By faith and hope, and only owned its yoke
In the strong love that bound it to its kind.
The cold gray light of the morning was struggling through the closed windows, and making the mournful light of a sick room yet more mournful; around were signs of recent festivity, in strange contrast to the ghastly present. The wax lights were slowly burning down; on the dressing-table, and before the mirror, were scattered a thousand gay toys and trifles. Flasks of precious scents, left open in the hurry, made the atmosphere heavy with perfume,
