time, but a little while past, when elated with gratified vanity, or joyful anticipation, she had there surveyed her form arrayed in finery—now, the rainbow tints had faded into the dark cloud.
She rose, and walked to the open window, about which she had trained a beautiful honey-suckle. The sun had just risen, and the dew-drops on its leaves sparkled in his rays.
"Oh, Mary!" said she, "even my honey-suckle seems to weep for me."
A robin had built its nest on the vine; and often as she sat watching her sleeping mother, she had been cheered with its sprightly note, and maternal care of its young. She looked to the nest—the birds had flown;—"They too," she exclaimed, "have deserted this house of sorrow."
"No, Jane;" replied Mary, "they have been provided with another home, and He who careth for them, will care much more for you."
Mary might have quoted (but she was not addicted to any profane works,) the beautiful language of a native poet—
"He who from zone to zone
Guides through the boundless sky their certain flight,
In the long way that you must trace alone
Will guide your steps aright."
"We shall not," she said, "be at your aunt's in time for breakfast; here, tie on your hat, you will need all your strength and courage, and you must not waste any on flowers and birds."
Jane obeyed the wise admonition of her friend;
