see what pretty violet paper I have, with a silver edge. The room is
of ivory, delicately carved, and chased with silver, and all around
are arches, in which stand fair statues. But there is no window,
except one in the ceiling, formed of a single pearl, through which the
softened sunlight falls. This room opens, by a silver door, into
another, in which sits a fair and stately lady, with hair like heavy
folds of gold, and eyes like the blue sky. Her features are carved
like those of a statue, and she is almost as pale and still. Her blue
silken robe falls richly around her, and a white flower lies, like
marble, upon her hair. She sits and gazes into the fire.

Now, this fire is one of the things I wish to tell you about. It is
the very brightest fire I ever saw; but there is no motion in it--no
flame, no smoke, no glowing coals, that take every moment new
forms. It is always still, still, and seems to be made of shining
metal. I wonder how the lady can sit and gaze into it as she does. And
then there is no warmth in it. No, it is not in the least like our
dear wood fire at home. O, how I long for that! For you must know
this house is not my home, and that I am now a poor little prisoner
here. And yet, how I once wished to come hither! I will tell you about
it.

My own home is a brown cottage by the shore of a great lake, over
which the sun brightly shines. Our garden stretches down to the very
waves of the lake, so that my violets are often sprinkled by their
light foam. In this garden I played and worked with my sister Mary. We
planted our seeds in the spring, and in summer watered and weeded
among the sunny flowers, while mother sat at the door and held the
baby, who laughed, and stretched out her little hands for the blossoms
we threw her. How I wish I could see that darling baby rolling down