lying asleep, and an angel bending over it binding a wreath of roses
on its head. I looked at this angel, with her softly-folded wings and
loving face, for a long while, and at the little sleeping child, and
thought, perhaps an angel is binding my head with roses while I sleep
in this marble house, for my life here all seems like a sleep and a
dream.

There was nothing else in the room except a wooden footstool and a
spinning wheel, the broken thread hanging upon it. On the walls was a
picture of a child with a halo around its head. It might not be a very
good painting, but the face was lovely, and seemed to say, "Come with
me." There was a little straw mat beneath this picture, as if some one
had knelt before it; at least I did. Then I drew the footstool up, and
sat near the ashes, on the hearth. I tried to imagine I was sitting by
the fire at home, close to my mother's side, on my little footstool,
while Mary, and the baby, and father were frolicking together, as they
always do at night; but O, there was only the dead brand. And yet I
would rather sit and look into those ashes, and think what a pleasant
fire was once there, or might be, if rekindled, than gaze, as the lady
does, into that hard, glittering fire, which is always the same.

While I sat there, feeling very homesick and sad, I spied a little
cupboard by the side of the fireplace. I opened it rather
hesitatingly, for I did not know what might be there, and found--what
do you think?--a book! You cannot tell what a joy that was to me, you
who have whole shelves of books. But if you had been shut up for a
long while in a great castle where there was no person who would speak
to you, no book which you could read, not so much as a kitten or a fly
to play with, and nothing to do, day after day, but wander about and
admire curtains and statues, and a lady like a statue,--would you not