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'Tis not my home—he made it home With earnest love and care; How can it be my own dear home, And he no longer there?

I ask'd to meet my father's eyes, But they were closed to me; My father, would that I were laid In the dark grave with thee.

Where should I look for constant love, To answer unto mine? Others had many kindred hearts, But I had only thine.

shades of the evening closed round just as Henrietta gave one sad start, and turned her face from the carriage-window, as she first recognised a familiar object: it was a clump of firs that grew on a hill, and were a