And yet they deem me reckless of the love Of kindred spirits, while they gaze with pain At the strange picture of a mind above All thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain; Oh! can they think my proud, high heart would _show_ The wish for blessings it may never know? Watchful and wary of each look and word, Lest they, earth’s joyous ones, should chance to learn The feelings that within so oft are stirred, That such emotions in my bosom burn, Yet here unseen, unheard, I must give way, And for awhile to anguish yield the sway. _Alone!_ What weary thoughts at that word throng, Vainly some refuge from their weight I crave, Yet it shall be the burthen of my song Until I rest within the quiet grave; No brighter hope hath my sad spirit known— And I must still live on unloved—alone! They call me cold and reckless of the love Of kindred spirits, while they gaze with pain At the strange picture of a mind above All thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain; How can they dream my proud, high heart would show The wish for blessings it may never know! Florence was suddenly aroused from her melancholy reverie by the sound of footsteps approaching the door of her chamber. In another instant there was a low knock—and hastily dashing aside her tears, and assuming, as if by magic, her wonted exterior, she bade the intruder enter. It proved to be a servant, who placed a small package in her hand, saying, as she did so, “A Valentine for you, Miss Florence.” The latter started with pleasurable surprise; who in all the wide world could have taken the trouble to write _her_ a valentine? But the query was answered by a single glance at the superscription. It was strangely familiar—it was Ida Hamilton’s! Just as she broke the seal the servant withdrew, saying that she had been requested to call in half an hour for a reply. When the package was unclosed, the following verses met the gaze of the astonished and delighted Florence. They were entitled “A Supplication to Florence.” Hearest thou my spirit chanting At the portals of thy heart? ’Tis to cross that threshold panting— Pining—bid it not depart. List not to its prayer unheeding, Entrance though it seeks to win— When it rises softly pleading, Prithee, prithee take me in! From a world of care and sadness, From its shadows and its sin, For Love’s sake, with love and gladness, Prithee, prithee take me in! Ah! within that mansion holy, May its nobler life begin? Turn not from its pleadings lowly, Prithee, prithee take me in!