e, and I am sitting alone in my apartment.
Not a sound reaches me but the whisperings of the wind, the murmuring of
the stream, and the chirping of that solitary cricket. The family know
my heart is heavy to-night, and the voices are hushed, and the footsteps
fall lightly. Lily, dear Lily, art thou near me?

Five years and some months ago--it was in early June--there came to our
home from far away in the sunny South, a fair young creature, a relative
of ours, though we had never seen her before. She had been motherless
rather less than a year, but her father had already found another
partner, and feeling that she would not so soon see the place of
the dearly-loved parent filled by a stranger, she had obtained his
permission to spend a few months with those who could sympathize with
her in her griefs.

Lily White! She was rightly named; I have never seen such a fair,
delicate face and figure, nor watched the revealings of a nature so pure
and gentle as was hers. She would have been too fair and delicate to
be beautiful, but for the brilliancy of those deep blue eyes, the dark
shade of that glossy hair, and the litheness of that fragile form;
but when months had passed away, and, though the brow was still marble
white, and the lip colourless, the cheek wore that deep rose tint, how
surpassingly beautiful she was! We did not dream what had planted that
rose-tint there--we thought her to be throwing off the grief which
alone, we believed, had paled her cheek; and we did not observe that
her form was becoming more delicate, and that her step was losing its
lightness and elasticity. We loved the sweet Lily dearly at first sight,
and she had been with us but a short time before we began to wonder how
our home had ever seemed perfect to us previous to her coming. And our
affection was returned by the dear girl. We knew how much she loved
us, when, as the warm season had passed, and her father sent for her to
return home, we saw the expression of deep sorrow in every feature, and
the silent entreaty that we would persuade him to allow her to remain
with us still.

She did not thank me when a letter reached me from her father, in reply
to one which, unknown to her, I had sent him, saying, if I thought
Lily's health would not be injured by a winter's residence in our cold
climate, he would comply with my urgent request, and allow her to remain
with us until the following spring--the dear girl could not speak. She
came to me alm