“Why, oh Father! didst thou see fit to throw me here in this bitter world, to suffer and to struggle _alone_! Alone must I suffer—alone am I in my love—alone in my despair—and when dying solitary, and I am bore to the rest of the grave, I shall be unwept, unthought of. Well! be it so; only, Father, teach me to bow in submission and to drink without murmuring of the bitter cup. I already look upon the tomb, as the storm-tossed mariner to his haven of safety, ‘where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.’ Ah! how few care what the motherless one, cut off from the world by poverty and other adverse circumstances, must endure. My wishes and my hopes are mine, and mine _alone_. I feel, as I imagine the deaf and dumb one does, whose heart is full of love, and bright, warm, beautiful fancies, and who cannot give them words. To whom can I utter them? All, all these feelings must be forever buried in the depths of mine own sad heart, and nothing but the froth, the foam, and the weeds, be thrown on the surface for the world’s gaze. Oh! how I envy those who have fond parents—a dear brother—a loving sister. How I long for a sympathy—a resting-place for my affections, which I despair of ever finding on earth, but which I hope I may realize with Him, the Father, who has given me this capability of loving.” This was written after hearing what my imagination—heated with fever and jealousy—construed into a light laugh from Dudley, immediately under my window. I knew it was _him_, for I heard the crashing sound of his boot-heel on the gravel, and the mingling tones of his aunt and Clare. They had all been walking—for I sprang from the bed to ascertain the fact. Yes, walking! For Clare was leaning on his arm; her sun-bonnet dangling by the string from her hand, and to my jealous eye she had never looked so near to beautiful. Her cheeks were flushed, and a smile _almost_ loving parted her lips as she looked up into his face. They had stopped to admire a flower, over which Mrs. Dudley still leaned, and he—apparently—was describing some of the same kind he possessed. How I hated Clare, at the moment, there standing with her hand upon his arm, when there was no necessity for the support; loving him, too, as I knew she must—though in what manner I could not picture to myself—for I had ever thought from her impassable nature it was the blood of _fishes_ which filled her veins. As I looked upon the group my dejection became intensified into agony. I felt utterly _alone_, and I wished for some kind Samaritan to pour the oil of sympathy into my bleeding wounds. It was then I wrote, and in the despair of my soul I felt that all was vanity and bitterness, and that I had deceived myself entirely—yes, blindly deceived myself. _He_ cared not for _me_—whilst I was writhing in pain, _he_ was merrily and gleefully laughing with those whom he knew, as well as I did, loved me not.