On the morning of August 5, 1906, while I was at my breakfast table, the telephone bell rang and a voice, strange to me, said "Mrs. Alverson, Lorina Kimball is dead." Without any warning or thought of receiving such a shock, of course, the day was done for me. I mourned for her as for my own. A bright, sunny child, singing and laughing in her childish glee, she made many friends, among them, members of the Amoskeg Veterans who made her the Daughter of the Regiment in Washington, D.C., and presented her with a beautiful silk flag and an elegant crescent pin of jewels for her fine recitations and character readings. A clearer mind I never taught and I prayed and hoped that nothing would intervene to stop her progress that had been so brilliantly begun. But my hopes did not avail. Before the bud had unfolded into maturity it was transplanted into the Garden of Eden above. Only those who have lost loved ones are able to feel how my heart's deepest sorrow went out with this young life. It was a pity that her notes could not have been recorded as they floated out into the still hour of the night. After her studies were over she would beg of me to join her in the song duets which we had perfected. When I reasoned with her not to sing, when so tired, like a spoiled child she pleaded. "My dear Lady Margaret, I am tired only with my studies, sing with me, I want to rest before I sleep." Who could resist the tender pleadings of the tired song bird. I called her my nightingale for her singing was done at night. One of her songs was the Nightingale's Trill or Queen of the Night. The memory of her singing ever lingers with me like the sweet perfume wafted from the distant isle, its subtle influence sinking upon the senses, calming the tired child as upon the mother's breast it rests in perfect peace and confidence. Its message accomplished, it floated away into space to travel on, and, forever until it reached the Giver of every perfect gift and rested in the Heavenly Courts above from everlasting to everlasting. Rest, weary pilgrim, from toil reposing, Night's darkening shadow round thee is closing, Drear is the pathway frowning before thee, No stars on high to guide and watch o'er me; Rest, weary pilgrim; rest, weary pilgrim. Rest, weary pilgrim, 'till morning breaking, And birds around thee bright songs awakening; Hark, through the forest chill winds are blowing, Here there is friendship and kind welcome glowing, Rest, weary pilgrim; rest, weary pilgrim. --Donizetti. PAULINE PETERSON