“I insist that Cinthia resembles you closely enough to be your own child.”
“Alas, I would that she were!” she cried, with sudden emotion.
CHAPTER XXXI.
MOST BITTERLY BEREAVED.
“Where’er I go I hear her low and plaintive murmuring,
I feel her little fairy clasp around my finger cling;
“I hope—I pray—that she is blest; but, oh, I pine to see
Once more the pretty pleading smile she used to give me!
“I pine to hear the low, sweet trill with which, whene’er I came,
Her little soft voice called to me, half welcome and half blame.
“I am so weary of the world, its falsehood and its strife,