Among the various manuscripts lying upon the little table before her, and bearing the signature of Florence Hastings, was the following, characteristic of her present emotions, and upon the surface of which the ink was still moist. She had evidently penned it but a few seconds previously.
This world is fair, with sunshine and with flowers,
That fragrance to its happy wanderers bring;
And while with listless step I roam life’s bowers,
Fain would I pluck the blossoms where they spring;
Ah! must I check the wish and pass them by —
Must sunless ever be my spirit’s sky?
And yet they deem me reckless of the love
Of kindred spirits, while they gaze with pain
At the strange picture of a mind above