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These are the things that fret away the heart— Cold, careless trifles; but not felt the less For mingling with the hourly acts of life. It is a cruel lot for the fine mind, Full of emotions generous and true, To feel its light flung back upon itself; All its warm impulses repelled and chilled, Until it finds a refuge in disdain! And woman, to whom sympathy is life, The only atmosphere in which her soul Developes all it has of good and true; How must she feel the chill!

" fond she was of flowers!" exclaimed Lady Marchmont, turning sadly away from a stand of choice plants, which Mrs. Courtenaye had sent her, two days before her death; "there was a likeness between them—so frail, so fair, and doomed so soon to perish. She was too