beautiful like your mother; the shadow is on your brow, and the sadness in your smile, which tells of sorrow; and in your loveliness is the association of pain. But hers was joyous and fresh as the morning. No care had ever furrowed that smooth white brow; no tears, save those of gentle pity, had ever fallen from those clear and glad eyes. You are pale; but her cheek was the brilliant rose, untouched by the noontide sun—unstained by the heavy shower. Her light step was so buoyant; and, when alone, you ever heard her sweet voice breaking out into snatches of song. Her young heart was full of love; and a world of kindly feelings were wasted on her delicate greyhound, her bright winged birds, and her favourite flowers. I have seen her weep when a sudden storm swept the early blossoms from the orange-plants. Somewhat self-willed she was,—a pretty resoluteness that had grown out of pure indulgence; but it was so graceful, so caressing, that her very caprice became your pleasure. I loved her, perhaps, the more for her contrast to myself. She looked to the bright side—it was the only one she knew. She believed the best of all, for she found it in herself. Her happiness was half ignorance; but I loved it in her.
"The prosperous and the contented may take
