“Then I am happy,” she replied. “Oh! what a curse it would have been on me, when all others could see the perfection of love, wisdom, and power,--(for the flowers of earth, the sounds of heaven, tell me that God must be that perfect being,)--I, I alone was blind. Yes, I shall see yet. The little infant, for days awakes not its eyelids to behold the mother, in whose bosom it is so fondly nursed, and the rich stream by which its pouting lips are fed; but soon they are opened to meet hers, beaming love upon every movement. I never knew that infant’s joy. Oh! how I longed, in the midst of soft whispers, to become acquainted with her who called me child. But I am nature’s child, and when this short life is ended, these eyes will be opened, and nature, my mother, shall be seen by me. These sightless orbs! Oh! I know not what it is to see, even in dreams. Dreams only hush me with sound, fragrance, and touch of love, in a dark cradle, but never remove the covering, that I might gaze upon the universe around. My little brother, far away in other lands, was my inseparable companion, until he went to the tomb. He led me to the river, and pointed my hand to the flickering light on its ripple, and then bade me look in that direction. He made me touch the sunbeam, resting and sporting alternately upon the bank, and then asked if I did not see it. He placed me beneath the moon, and bade me feel if I could not perceive its rays. He rowed me over the still, placid lake, and then he would rest on his oars, and point my finger to the stars, which, he said, were embosomed there; and oh! what secret sounds thrilled through my silent soul. But I never saw one object! He bathed his beautiful face, and flung back his soft silken hair, and bade me gaze on a brother;--and I could not!” Overpowered with the strength of her feelings, she sat down. Still, she covered not her face with her hands, but looked earnestly up, as if it were a sin to gaze away from the sky, which she longed so much to greet. Katharine and her companion kissed the young child, while Dawson kindly asked,-- “From what land do you come? You speak our language, but your appearance and feelings betoken you a native of a more genial sun. Why do you wander here?” “Wander! Is not life altogether a wandering? I have no friends but flowers, and our home is the wide earth. I ever find them the same, wherever I am, and, therefore, I think that I am the same; neither changed in place nor time. My brother left me alone. Oh! was it not cruel to commit the beautiful boy to the tomb? And yet, they told me that his name and age were marked in white, innocent letters upon his coffin! Oh! could the worms dare to crawl upon, or even touch with their pollution ‘Henrico Fortice, aged twelve years.’ Was it not kind to mention his name and age?”