she hastily left the
window at which she had been standing, and, in the depths of her
chamber, sought for strength and consolation.

Let no one deride the innocent prayer of the child, and say that it
was folly, and unworthy of her. The woes of youth are not our woes,
and the iron mace which strikes down the stalwart man, falls not more
heavily upon his strong shoulders, than does the straw which bears to
the earth the weak heart of childhood.

Then, when the man frowns, and clenches his hand against the hostile
fate pressing upon him, the child only weeps, and endeavors to avoid
the suffering.

Redbud suffered no little. She loved Verty very sincerely as the
playmate of her earlier years, and the confidential friend of her
happiest hours. The feeling which was ripening in her heart had not
yet revealed itself, and she felt that the barrier now raised between
herself and the young man was cruel. But, then, suddenly, she would
recollect Miss Lavinia's words, recall that warning, that they
both would suffer--and so poor Redbud was very unhappy--very much
confused--not at all like herself.

We have said very little of this child's character, preferring rather
to let the current of our narrative reflect her pure features from
its surface, as it flowed on through those old border days which were
illustrated and adorned by the soft music of her voice, the kindness
of her smile. Perhaps, however, this is a favorable occasion to lay
before the reader what was written by a poor pen, in after years,
about the child, by one who had loved, and been rendered purer by
her. Some one, no matter who, had said to him one day--"Tell me about
little Redbud, whom you praise so much"--and he had taken his pen and
written--

"How can I? There are some figures that cannot be painted, as there
are some melodies which cannot be uttered by the softest wind which
ever swept the harp of Aeolus. You can scarcely delineate a star, and
the glories of the sunset die away, and live not upon canvas. How
difficult, then, the task you have imposed upon me, _amigo mio_--to
seal up in a wicker flask that moonlight; chain down, by words, that
flitting and almost imperceptible perfume--to tell you anything about
that music which, embodied in a material form, was known as Redbud!

"Observe how I linger on the threshold, and strive to evade what I
have promised to perform. What can I say of the little friend who made
so many of my hours pure sunshine? S