"Do you not see the shadow on my brow? It has been there since my cradle hours. It was born with me, and is a part of myself,--just as much as the shadow I cast upon the sunshine. I can no more remove it than I could the thunder-cloud from Jehovah's arch." I trembled at the strength of his language, and it seemed as if the shadow were stealing over my own soul. His employment was prophetic. He was pulling the rose-leaves from my basket, and scattering them unconsciously on the floor. "See what I have done," said he, looking down on the wreck. "So the roses of confidence are scattered and destroyed by the cruel hand of mistrust," cried I, stooping to gather the fallen petals. "Let them be," said he, sadly, "you cannot restore them." "I know it; but I can remove the ruins." I was quite distressed at the turn the conversation had taken. I could not bear to think that one to whom the Creator had been so bountiful of his gifts, should appreciate so little the blessings given. He, to talk of shadows, in the blazing noonday of fortune; to pant with thirst, when wave swelling after wave of pure crystal water wooed with refreshing coolness his meeting lips. Oh, starver in the midst of God's plenty! think of the wretched sons of famine, and be wise. "You must have a strange power over me," said he, rising and walking to one of the alcoves, in which the books were arranged. "Seldom indeed do I allude to my own individuality. Forget it. I have been very happy lately. My soul, like a high mountain, lifts itself into the sunshine, leaving the vapors and clouds rolling below. I have been breathing an atmosphere pure and fresh as the world's first morning, redolent with the fragrance of Eden's virgin blossoms." He paused a moment, then approaching his own portrait, glanced from it to the flower girl, and back again from the flower girl to his own image. "Clouds and sunshine," he exclaimed, "flowers and thorns; such is the union nature loves. And is it not well? Clouds temper the dazzle of the sunbeams,--thorns protect the tender flowers. Have you read many of these books?" he asked, with a sudden transition. "A great many," I answered, unspeakably relieved to hear him resume his natural tone and manner; "too many for my mind's good." "How so? These are all select works,--golden sheaves of knowledge, gathered from the chaff and bound by the reaping hand." "I mean that I cannot read with moderation. My rapid eye takes in more than my judgment can criticize or my memory retain. That is one reason why I like to hear another read. Sound does not travel with the rapidity of light, and then the echo lingers in the ear."