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A mother, though her heart may break,
From that fond heart will never tear
The child whose last retreat is there.”
Ellen Fitzarthur.
It was a cold, dreary morning in the month of December, a heavy snow lay upon the ground, and the wind whistled around the northeast corner of the post-office; the streets were nearly deserted; none ventured out but those whose business rendered it absolutely necessary. I sat at the window watching the flakes of snow as they peeled from the roofs of the opposite houses and scattered their whitened particles on the pavement beneath.
The Southern mail had arrived, and all the business-letters were delivered; a drowsy feeling crept over me, and I was just falling into the Lethean lake of forgetfulness,—that dreamy portion of our life, without which this paradise, this glorious world, with its riches and its charms, would be as a howling desert.
“Sleep, sweet restorer, balmy sleep.”
But I am digressing. I was awakened from my slumber by a slight touch upon the elbow and a tremulous voice uttering the words, “Sir! sir!”