disposition,--the flashes of gayety mingled with outbursts of sorrow;
the playful moods of fancy alternating with moments of deep melancholy;
and, after all, this might be one of them.

With these thoughts I threw myself on my bed, but could not sleep. At
one minute my brain went on puzzling about Minette and her sorrow; at
the next I reproached myself for my own harsh, unfeeling manner to the
poor girl, and was actually on the eve of arising to seek her and ask
her pardon. At last sleep came, and dreams too; but, strange enough,
they were of the distant land of my boyhood and the hours of my youth;
of the old house in which I was born, and its well-remembered rooms. I
thought I was standing before my father, while he scolded me for some
youthful transgression; I heard his words as though they were really
spoken, as he told me that I should be an outcast and a wanderer,
without a friend, a house, or home; that while others reaped wealth and
honors, I was destined to be a castaway: and in the torrent of my grief
I awoke.

It was night,--dark, silent night. A few stars were shining in the sky,
but the earth was wrapped in shadow; and as I opened my window to let
the fresh breeze calm my fevered forehead, the deep precipice beneath me
seemed a vast gulf of yawning blackness. At a great distance off I could
see the watchfires of some soldiers bivouacking in the plain; and even
that much comforted my saddened heart, as it aroused me to the thoughts
of the campaign before me. But again my thoughts recurred to my dream,
which I could not help feeling as a sort of prediction.

When our sleep leaves its strong track in our waking moments, we dread
to sleep again for fear the whole vision should come back; and thus I
sat down beside the window, and fell into a long train of thought. The
images of my dream were uppermost in my mind; and every little incident
of childhood, long lost to memory, came now fresh before me,--the
sorrows of my schoolboy years, unrelieved by the sense of love awaiting
me at home; the clinging to all who seemed to feel or care for me;
and the heart-sickening sorrow when I found that what I mistook for
affection was merely pity: all save one,--my mother! Her mild, sad
looks, so seldom cheered by a ray of pleasure,--I remember well how they
fell on me! with such a thrilling sensation at my heart, and such a gush
of thankfulness, as I felt then! Oh! if they who live with children knew
how needful it is to o