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I tell thee death were far more merciful Than such a blow. It is death to the heart; Death to its first affections, its sweet hopes; The young religion of its guileless faith. Henceforth the well is troubled at the spring; The waves run clear no longer; there is doubt To shut out happiness—perpetual shade; Which, if the sunshine penetrate, 'tis dim, And broken ere it reach the stream below.

is strange how we hope, even against hope. The light came into Ethel's eyes, the colour flushed her cheek, when she caught sight of the letter. She believed that it must be for her; and it was with a sick feeling of disappointment that she saw the servant pass by her. I do not think that life has a suspense more sickening than that of expecting a letter which does not come. The hour which brings