Chapter 17 AN HOUR BEFORE THE BALL.

The child stands, meekly, by her mother.

Look, woman, in those earnest eyes!

Say, canst thou understand, or smother

The deep maternal mysteries

That rise and swell within thy breast;

That throb athwart thy aching brain,

Till, with deep tenderness oppressed,

Hope, thought, and feeling turn to pain?

We take the reader once mor