III
A cold, deceitful thing
Is the snow,
Though it come on dove-like wing—
The false snow!
'T is but rain disguised appears;
And our hopes are frozen tears,
Like the snow!
A tear did course down Fanny's cheek as she read the last couplet; and closing the book and replacing it in the little basket, she sighed, and said, "Poor fellow!—I wish he were not so sad!"
CHAPTER VIII