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RS. SYLVESTER had a passion for children. She entertained certain strange sentiments concerning them, at which her friends marvelled and smiled aside. She cherished favorite theories concerning the holy atmosphere that surrounds childhood, the guardian angels that follow in children's steps, and fold invisible arms around their tiny forms to shield them from danger, the unseen hands that guide them, the unearthly voices that teach. The music of a child's jubilant laugh, though it sounded in the distant streets, and she knew not from what voice it rang, found an involuntary echo in her heart and upon her lips. The soft touch of a child's clinging fingers sent a thrill of pleasure through her frame. Not the stars in their blue canopy, nor the flowers on their emerald beds, nor the glitter of precious stones, nor the noblest triumphs of the chisel or the brush, were half so beautiful in her sight as childhood's innocent eyes, glowing cheeks, dewy