IN a Siamese home, which stood in the midst of most beautiful fruit-gardens, where the rosy-cheeked pomegranate nodded and played hide-and-seek among its leaves with the purple mangosteen, and the fragrant blossoms of the luscious mango pelted and showered themselves down upon the thorny durian, and the tall cocoanut frowned loftily on the graceful waving leaves of the banana,—in such a lovely spot, amidst singing birds and fragrant flowers and most glorious sunshine, about twenty years ago a little baby girl was born.
When the dear little stranger first opened her eyes she saw only gloom and smoke. A Siamese infant is not carefully bathed by gentle hands, and dressed in softest, purest linen, and laid in the clean white bed beside the mother, who gathers it close in her arms and thanks God for such
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