I turned over its leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures
the charm I had, till now, never failed to find -- all was eerie
and dreary; the giants were gaunt goblins, the pigmies malevolent
and fearful imps, Gulliver a most desolate wanderer in most dread
and dangerous regions. I closed the book, which I dared no longer
peruse, and put it on the table, beside the untasted tart.

Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and having
washed her hands, she opened a certain little drawer, full
of splendid shreds of silk and satin, and began making a new
bonnet for Georgiana's doll. Meantime she sang: her song was -

"In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago."

I had often heard the song before, and always with lively delight;
for Bessie had a sweet voice, -- at least, I thought so. But
now, though her voice was still sweet, I found in its melody an
indescribable sadness. Sometimes, preoccupied with her work, she
sang the refrain very low, very lingeringly; "A long time ago" came
out like the saddest cadence of a funeral hymn. She passed into
another ballad, this time a really doleful one.

"My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary; Long is the way,
and the mountains are wild; Soon will the twilight close moonless
and dreary Over the path of the poor orphan child.

"Why did they send me so far and so lonely, Up where the moors
spread and grey rocks are piled? Men are hard-hearted, and kind
angels only Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child.