•AIEY FAIBY LILIAN/
Home, sweet Home.
Old English Song,
Down the broad oak staircase—through the silent hall
—into the drawing-room runs Lilian, singing as she
The room is deserted; through the half-closed
blinds the glad sunshine is rushing, turning to gold all
on which its soft touch lingers, and rendering the
large, dull, handsome apartment almost comfortable.
Outside everything is bright, and warm, and
genial, as should be in the heart of summer; within
there is only gloom—and Lilian clad in her mourning
robes. The contrast is dispiriting: there life, here
death, or at least the knowledge of it. There joy,
here the signs and trappings of woe.
The black gown and funereal trimmings hardly har¬
monise with the girl's flower-like face and the gay song
that trembles on her lips. But, alas! for how short a
time does our first keen sorrow last; how swiftly are
our dead forgotten; how seldom does grief kill!
When eight long months have flown by across her
father's grave Lilian finds, sometimes to her dismay,
that the hours she grieves for him form but a short
part of her day.