s, and such distinguished modern ones as George Washington,
Daniel Webster, Henry Clay, Edward Everett, and even down to one little
shock-headed, lisping, Abraham Lincoln.

"My own sweet Rose," proved, unhappily for Clemence, to possess more of
the characteristics of a stinging nettle, than of the flower whose name
she bore, and she was glad when her week was out, and she could leave
her charming society, for that which she fondly hoped might be more
congenial.

Clemence had begun to try her strength, and she prayed fervently that
she might not "faint by the way." What other alternative had she than
this? It was too sadly true, as she had told her friend, she was all
alone in the world. What mattered it where the rest of her life was
spent? She tried bravely to do her duty "in that station in life to
which it had pleased God to call her." That was enough for the present.
The future stretched out, dreary and hopeless, before her.

Strangely enough, she never thought that she was young and pretty and
well born, and might form new ties, if she would. She never reasoned
upon the subject, for the bare possibility did not once enter her mind.
This was the more strange, that she had never been in love, and there
were no memories to rise up and haunt her like ghosts of forgotten joys,
no dear face that had beamed upon her with the one profound affection
that comes to every one at some period of their lives. There were only
two graves under the willows that contained all that had ever been dear
to her in life. She never dreamed of any other love than theirs, who had
watched over her childhood, and left her, with prayers to heaven for her
safety upon their pallid lips. Her one hope was to live so that she
might meet them again, and that it might be said of her, "She hath done
what she could."

Clemence Graystone was possessed of little worldly ambition, and she had
no incentive to exertion, beyond what was necessary to maintain an
honorable independence. She was content, with fine talents that might
have won her a name, to be left behind upon the road to fame by those
who were better adapted to the contest. What was it to her? A
short-lived popularity, the adulation of the vulgar, the cool, critical
glances of those who might sympathize and appreciate, but ever seemed
more ready to condemn. She had no wish to be petted by the crowd, or
court the gaze of idle curiosity. Better solitude and her own thoughts.

She had enough of