A faithful and efficient woman kept their house, and cared for Dawn’s physical wants; her father attending to her needs, both mental and spiritual, until she reached the age of seven, when a change in his business required him to be so often away from home, that he advertised for a governess to superintend her studies and her daily deportment.

“What was mamma like?” asked Dawn of her father one evening as they sat in the moonlight together, “was she like the twilight?”

He turned upon the child with admiration, for to him nothing in nature could better be likened unto his lost and lovely Alice.

“Yes, darling,” he said, kissing her again and again, “mamma was just like the twilight—­sweet, tender, and soothing.”

“Then I am not at all like mamma?” she remarked, a little sadly.

“And why?”

“Because I am strong and full of life.  I always feel as though it was just daylight.  I never feel tired, papa, I only feel hushed.”

“Heaven grant my daughter may never be weary,” he said, and stooped to kiss her, while he brushed away a tear which started as he did so.

“I shall never be weary while I have you, papa.  You will never leave me, will you?”

“I hope to be spared many years to guard and love my charge.”

A few days after, Dawn was surprised to find the governess, of whom her father had spoken, in the library, and her father with his carpet-bag packed, ready for a journey.

Am I not going too, papa?” she said, turning on him her face, as though her heart was ready to burst with grief.  It was their first parting, and equally hard for parent and child.

“Not this time, darling, but in the summer we shall go to the sea-shore and the mountains, and take Miss Vernon with us.  Come, this is your teacher, Dawn; I want you to be very good and obedient while I am away,” and then, looking at his watch, he bade them both adieu.

He knew the child was weeping bitterly.  All the way to the cars, and on the journey through that long, sunny day, he felt her calling him back.  There could be no real separation between them, and it was painful to part, and keep both so drawn and attenuated in spirit.

In vain Miss Vernon exerted herself to make the child happy.  It was of no use.  Her delicate organism had received its first shock; but in due time her spirit broke through the clouds in its native brilliancy, and there was no lingering shadow left on her sky.  Dawn was as bright and smiling as she had been sad and dispirited.

“I will gather some wild flowers and make the room all bright and lovely for papa,” she said, and in a moment was far away.

“It’s no use training her, you see, Miss,” the good housekeeper asserted, as a sort of an apology for the child, whom she loved almost to idolatry, “might as well try to trap the sunlight or catch moonbeams.  She’ll have her way, and, somehow to me, her way seems always right.  Will you please step out to tea, Miss, and then I will go and look after her; or, if you like, you can follow that little path that leads from the garden gate to the hill where she has gone for her flowers.”