at thy feet upon the shores of time, since first with pleading eyes and timid mien, thou tookest the place a sainted mother left unfilled. Her children, not ungraciously—it may be with forbearing kindness—made room for thee beside the crowded hearth; but could they welcome, even the best of earth, to that dear seat which she of heaven had sanctified? No voice could call thee "mother;" the tender epithet seemed sacrilege upon her children's lips. The stranger was respected as their father's choice; for his sake valued, not beloved and honored for her own.
Was not thy gentle spirit sad and ill at ease, sitting among those half-averted faces, sons and daughters of one whose holy footprints thou hadst come to press out with thy faltering feet? They asked not, knew not; the hand of him whose wisdom none dared question, placed thee in their midst; the inevitable was accepted as the endurable.
How mild and meek thou wert, how doubtful of thyself, how all unconscious of thy own surpassing virtues! So unassuming that thou could'st not think the noblest act of thine was better than the common deeds of others. Ever blushing at thyself, the very wit, that flashed upon thy lips, because the bubbling fount within, could not repress its sparkling gush, was uttered in a tone that might escape the ear. Thus, shrinkingly, in thy new orbit didst thou move, thy life with unpretentious goodness rounded.
Soon, very soon, the holy magnetism that en-
