The Union and journal. [volume] (Biddeford, Me.) 1858-1882, 1861-04-12
sitting in il that no other possesses, not even
the old Sustained name OF Lucretia.
L, DECEMBER 10, Il

l., DECEMBER IL, Is
DEAR HoRTENsE.-Do not worry for me,
poor child. You know how strong / am,
and how well always. And this is just the
discipline needed. shall come out Of the
fire, tried but purified, by-and-by, darling,
shall come home aud take the old mansion
house, while you will be gone to make an
other home happy. am learning to live
without you now. So shall not miss you
SO much then.
Write often-yery, very often-Hortense.
Your letters are all the companionship
have. | CANNOT make friends of those
around me. Sometimes | am lonely, but
then you know used TO be sad at times in
our own dear home, so what else could l ex-
pect among strangers?
But must tell you OF a girl whose loom
is next to mine and while she is weaving
cloth out of Southern cotton, you may weave,
my little poetess, her story all out of your
wonderful Imagination, for there MUST be
something strange in the story of her young
life.
Iwish you could see her face. II is one
Of those that one always fancics corresponds
to an alto voice. Ii is oval, pale, with
pale straightened lips that tell plainly Of
constant struggling and suffering restrained,
beautiful chin and throat. She has q
great deal of dark hair, waving into gold,
which she puts up in heavy rolls under a
lOose-meshed net Of blue. But her eyes,
Hortense-they are perfect-deep, full, heav-
lily shaded, and heavily browed, the lids,
dead-whitc and dropping, and she seems Oft
encr to be looking array of than anywhere
else. | don't know whether they are grey
or brown, and they may be blue the pupils
grow so large, and the lashes are so long,
besides, you only look and wonder at the cx-
preston, and never think of the color.
Her name is Adelaide COnant. She goes
and comes-gocs and comes-day after day,
and never q smile, never glow, never
spring in her weary walk, and the eye lids
grow deader white each day. Ask mother
dear Hortense, and ask her il the young and
pure ever suffer so, and whence tho strength
to bear it so long comes, too.
o Hortensc. do SO long TO comfort her,
but she will not; Rachael mourning for her
children You thought that my cross was
heavy one when lcft home, but hers must
be heavy indeed. Do you remember that
picture we saw in Florence, over the altar of
the peasants chapel-Christ bent almost to
the ground with the weight OF his cross? l
know it is irreyercnt, but she always reminds
me of ii.
had some little tea roses tho other day,
and gave them TO her. She thanked me
sweetly, with tears in her beautiful eyes
and she carried them about with her all day
did not know how to tell her Of my SYM
pathy in words, but we both understood the
flowers.
would sometimes read her your
loving, cheering letters, but am afraid she
has a sister from whom she may not hear,
whose heart is sealed towards her and it would
remind her so painfully-you know. They
say she has never spoken of home, father nor
mother since she has been here.
l need not say remember me, but like to
write it. Remember is a sweet word to
write or think when one is away from home.
And you know that no one loves you better
than SISTER Rurn.