ut
please forgive me, dear brother Sandy, I long for that stiff
old work-hour to be over, that I may run up to Mrs. Lang's
sun-shiny room, with its flowers, pictures, piano, and
herself. Miss Darry, because of her very great talents,
Sandy, is far above me. Do you know, though you are to be a
great painter, she seems to me more talented than you, with
your old home-like ways? But then we sha'n't have those
home-like ways any more. Oh, Sandy, we miss you! but I do
hope you will be good and great and happy. Miss Darry says
you work night and day. But you must sleep some, or you'll
be sick. I always fancied great men were born great; it must
be hard to have to be made so. I guess you will be glad to
hear that father don't swear and scold now; he says he is
doing well, and he bought me a new dress the other day at
Miss Dinsmore's. She has got back from the city with the
gayest flowers and ribbons. My dress is orange-colored. I
don't fancy one quite so bright, and wear the old violet one
you gave me oftener; but I can't exactly see why I don't
like it, after all; for the very same color, on the breast
of the Golden Oriole that builds a nest in our garden, I
think is perfectly splendid. I hope you won't forget your
loving little sister,

"ANNIE BRAY."

Sometimes she wrote less brightly and hopefully; but, oh, what a
blessing it was to have her write at all! I found myself watching for
those natural, loving words, for the acknowledgment of missing me, as,
wearied after viewing Alpine peaks, one might stoop cheered and
satisfied to pluck a tiny flower. Miss Darry never missed me. She
discouraged the idea of a long autumn vacation, and offered to come to
the city and board, that my work might still go on. I began to entertain
serious doubts, if, when we were married, I should be suffered to live
with her,--or whether she would not send me to boarding-school, or to
pursue my studies abroad.

When October came, with the rich sadness of its days, at once a prophecy
of grief and an assurance of its soothing, I broke down utterly. My
aesthetic and literary friends did not feel that sympathy for my worn-out
body and soul which both demanded. I applied to the only legitimate
source for aid in my weakness and the permission to yield to it; but
before either arrived, Nature proved more