one of the servants to bury it near my accacia tree. For days afterwards I did nothing but sob on that grave. How desolate the mornings seemed—how the presence of one real sorrow shook to its very foundations my fairyland, I started from even a moment's forgetfulness as a wrong to the memory of my beloved companion.
At length I began to take an interest in decorating the grave, and planted first one flower and then another. I was not very successful in my gardening attempts, till at length Lucy came to my assistance. Lucy was the grandaughter of an old blind woman who lived near; an aged retainer of some great family, whose small pension had long out-lasted the original donors. I have seen many beautiful faces since, but nothing that rises to my memory to be compared with Lucy's childish but exceeding loveliness. She was delicately fair, though constant exposure to the sun had touched the little hands, and the sweet face with soft brown, through which came the most transparent colour that ever caught its red from
