The wind, growing with the night, is rattling at the window panes, and whistles dismally. I wipe a tear, and in the interval of my reverie, thank God, that I am no such mourner. But gaiety, snail-footed, creeps back to the household. All is bright again: The violet bed’s not sweeter Than the delicious breath marriage sends forth. _Her_ lip is rich and full; her cheek delicate as a flower. Her frailty doubles your love. And the little one she clasps—frail too—too frail: the boy you had set your hopes and heart on. You have watched him growing, ever prettier, ever winning more and more upon your soul. The love you bore to him when he first lisped names—your name and hers—has doubled in strength now that he asks innocently to be taught of this, of that, and promises you by that quick curiosity that flashes in his eye, a mind full of intelligence. And some hair-breadth escape by sea, or flood, that he perhaps may have had—which unstrung your soul to such tears as you pray God may be spared you again—has endeared the little fellow to your heart a thousandfold. And, now with his pale sister in the grave, all _that_ love has come away from the mound, where worms feast, and centers on the boy. How you watch the storms lest they harm him! How often you steal to his bed late at night and lay your hand lightly upon the brow, where the curls cluster thick, rising and falling with the throbbing temples, and watch, for minutes together, the little lips half-parted, and listen—your ear close to them—if the breathing be regular and sweet! But the day comes—the night rather—when you can catch no breathing. Aye, put your hair away—compose yourself—listen again. No, there is nothing! Put your hand now to his brow—damp indeed—but not with healthful night sleep: it is not your hand, no, do not deceive yourself—it is your loved boy’s forehead that is so cold; and your loved boy will never speak to you again—never play again—he is dead! Oh, the tears—the tears: what blessed things are tears! Never fear now to let them fall on his forehead, or his lip, lest you waken him! Clasp him—clasp him harder—you can not hurt, you can not waken him! Lay him down, gently or not, it is the same; he is stiff; he is stark and cold. * * * * * But courage and patience, faith and hope recovers itself easier, thought I, than these embers will get into blaze again. But courage, and patience, faith, and hope have their limit. Blessed be the man who escapes such trial as will determine limit! To a lone man it comes not near; for how can trial take hold where there is nothing by which to try? A funeral? You reason with philosophy. A graveyard? You read Hervey and muse upon the wall. A friend dies? You sigh, you pat your dog—it is over. Losses? You retrench—you light your pipe—it is forgotten. Calumny? You laugh—you sleep. But with that childless wife clinging to you in love and sorrow—what then?