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LETTERS. 149
them. In the evening I sketched and colored Héléne
Franzén’s portrait, and wrote underneath it : —
“ Voyez ici Héléne,
Non pas l’Héléne de Troie;
Elle est bien mieux, ma foi,
Elle est fille de Franzén.’’
She is very handsome, and her parents were exceedingly
delighted with the portrait, which really represented a
young, beautiful Greek maiden, and besides, it was very
like her.
Shall I have no letter from you to-day?
THE HOME OF PRAYER.
¢ Billows, bitter as Affliction’s tears, were beating wildly
and with monotonous sound against a rock, on the dull
gray surface of which not even the tiniest shrub had taken
root, and whereon no little bird ever perched chirping, to
search for a seed or a grain, carried thither by the winds
of heaven. The thunder of malediction seemed to have
swept over that dreary rock. Dark, cold clouds crowned
its top. Yonder, on that awful height, a solitary being was
sitting —a woman. . Known she is to many a child of
mortality. Deadly pale was her face; but her paleness
was that of sorrow. Calm she sat and quiet, like one de-
void of hope. Eternal tears coursed each other, drop by
drop, down her cheeks slowly, as, for her, time’s endless
minutes vanished. Closed were her ashy lips; but the ex-
pression which played over her features, like a dark genius,
seenied distinctly to say these words: “TI suffer, I suffer!”
In her sunken, yet flaming, eye; on her forehead, from
which waves of gray hair were floating on the icy blast,
while she was bent low, not by age, but by suffering, —
stood written that her heart was cankered. Happy art
thou, who, in the bright heaven of thy heart, never sawest
even the shadow of this picture! Happy art thou, oh
favorite of angels, who canst say: “I know her not!”
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