It is but one day longer;--we have counted many, in peril and fear, and _this_, is the last;--even now how softly the fearful time wastes. _One day!_--Oh God, thou only knowest what its shining walls encircle. (_She leans on the window, musing silently_.) Two years ago I stood here, and prayed to die.-On that same tree my eye rested then. With what visions of hope I played under it once, building bowers for fairies I verily thought would come, and dreaming, with yearning heart, of glorious and beautiful things this world _hath not_. But, that wretched day, through blinding tears, I saw the sunlight on its glossy leaves, and I said, 'let me see that light no more.' Surely the bitterness is deep when that which hath colored all our unfolded being, is a weariness. For what more hath life for me I thought, its lesson is learned and its power is spent,--it can please, and it can trouble me no more; and why should I stay here in vain and wearily? It was sad enough, indeed, to see the laughing spring returning again, when the everlasting winter had set in within, to link with each change of the varied year, sweet with a life's memories, such mournfulness; laying by, one by one, all hope's blessed spells, withered and broken forever,--the moonlight, the songs of birds, the blossom showers of April, the green and gold of autumn's sunset,--it was sad, but it was not in vain.--Not in vain, Oh God, didst thou deny that weeping prayer. (_A merry voice is heard without, and a child's face peeps through the window that overlooks the orchard_.) _Child_. Look! look! sister Helen! see what I have found on the roof of the piazza here,--all covered with wampum and scarlet, and here are feathers too--two feathers in it, blue and yellow--eagle's feathers they are, I guess. _Helen_ (_approaching the window_.) Let me see, Willy. What, did you find it here? _Willy._ Just under the window here. Frank and I were swinging on the gate; and--there is something hard in it, Helen,--feel. _Helen_. Yes, it is very curious; but-- _Willy_. There comes Netty with the candle; now we can see to untie this knot. _Helen_. Willy, dear Willy, you must give it to me, you must indeed, and--I will paint you a bird to-morrow. _Willy_. A blue-bird, will you? A real one? _Helen_. Yes, yes;--run down little climber; see how dark it grows, and Frank is waiting, see. _Willy_. Well. But mind you, it must be a blue bird then. A real one. With the red on his breast, and all. [_Exit_. (_She walks to the table, unfastening the envelope_.) _Helen_. What sent that thrill of forgotten life through me then?--that wild, delicious thrill? This is strange, indeed. A sealed pacquet within! and here-- (_She glances at the superscription, and the pacquet drops from her hand_.)