Dawn grew to be very beautiful. Every day revealed some new charm, until Hugh feared she too might go and live with the angels. But there was a mission for her to perform on the earth, and she lived.

Each day he talked to her of her mother, and kept her memory alive to her beautiful traits, until the child grew so familiar with her being as to know no loss of her bodily presence, save in temporal affairs.

A faithful and efficient woman kept their house, and cared for Dawn's physical wants; her father attending to her needs, both mental and spiritual, until she reached the age of seven, when a change in his business required him to be so often away from home, that he advertised for a governess to superintend her studies and her daily deportment.

“What was mamma like?” asked Dawn of her father one evening as they sat in the moonlight together, “was she like the twilight?”

He turned upon the child with admiration, for to him nothing in nature could better be likened unto his lost and lovely Alice.

“Yes, darling,” he said, kissing her again and again, “mamma was just like the twilight—sweet, tender, and soothing.”

“Then I am not at all like mamma?” she remarked, a little sadly.

“And why?”

“Because I am strong and full of life. I always feel as though it was just daylight. I never feel tired, papa, I only feel hushed.”

“Heaven grant my daughter may never be weary,” he said, and stooped to kiss her, while he brushed away a tear which started as he did so.

“I shall never be weary while I have you, papa. You will never leave me, will you?”

“I hope to be spared many years to guard and love my charge.”

A few days after, Dawn was surprised to find the governess, of whom her father had spoken, in the library, and her father with his carpet-bag packed, ready for a journey.

“Am I not going too, papa?” she said, turning on him her face, as though her heart was ready to burst with grief. It was their first parting, and equally hard for parent and child.

“Not this time, darling, but in the summer we shall go to the sea-shore and the mountains, and take Miss Vernon with us. Come, this is your teacher, Dawn; I want you to be very good and obedient while I am away,” and then, looking at his watch, he bade them both adieu.

He knew the child was weeping bitterly. All the way to the cars, and on the journey through that long, sunny day, he felt her calling him back. There could be no real separation between them, and it was painful to part, and keep both so drawn and attenuated in spirit.

In vain Miss Vernon exerted herself to make the child happy. It was of no use. Her delicate organism had received its first shock; but in due time her spirit broke through the clouds in its native brilliancy, and there was no lingering shadow left on her sky. Dawn was as bright and smiling as she had been sad and dispirited.

“I will gather some wild flowers and make the room all bright and lovely for papa,” she said, and in a moment was far away.

“It's no use training her, you see, Miss,” the good housekeeper asserted, as a sort of an apology for the child, whom she loved almost to idolatry, “might as well try to trap the sunlight or catch moonbeams. She'll have her way, and, somehow to me, her way seems always right. Will you please step out to tea, Miss, and then I will go and look after her; or, if you like, you can follow that little path that leads from the garden gate to the hill where she has gone for her flowers.”

Miss Vernon was glad to go; and after a light supper, was on her way, almost fearful that the child might consider her an intruder, for she instinctively felt that she must work her way into the affections of her new charge.

She followed the path to the hill, and after walking for some time and not finding Dawn, was about to retrace her steps, when she heard a low, sweet voice, chanting an evening hymn. She sat upon a bed of grey moss until the chanting ceased, and then went in the direction from which the sound came.

There sat Dawn, with eyes uplifted, lips parted as though in conversation, and features glowing with intensest emotion. Then the eyes dropped, and her little hands were pressed to her heart, as though the effort had been too great.

Slowly Miss Vernon stepped towards her. Dawn caught her eye, and motioned her to come nearer.

“Are you not lonely here, child?” she asked.

“Lonely? O, no. I am not alone, Miss Vernon, God is here, and I am so full I sing, or I should die. Did you hear me?”

“I did. Who taught you that beautiful chant?”

“No one; it grew in me; just as the flowers grow on the plants.”

“I have an instructor here, and one I shall find more interesting than tractable,” mused the governess, as she looked upon the child. But Dawn was not learned in one day, as she afterwards found.

The sun sank behind the hills just as they entered the garden together. Dawn missed her father too much to be quite up to her usual point of life, and she went and laid herself down upon a couch in the library, and chatted away the hour before her bedtime. She missed him more than she could tell; and then she thought to herself, “Who can I tell how much I miss my father?”

“Did you ever have any body you loved go away, Miss Vernon?” she at last ventured to ask, and her voice told what she suffered.

“I have no near friends living, dear child.”

“What! did they all die? Only my mamma is dead; but I don't miss her; I think she must be in the air, I feel her so. Have n't you any father, Miss Vernon?”

“No. He died when I was quite young, and then my mother, and before I came here I buried my last near relative-an aunt.”

“But aunts don't know us, do they?”

“Why not? I don't quite understand you,” she said, wishing to bring the child out.

“Why, they don't feel our souls. I have got aunts and cousins, but they seem away off, O, so far. They live here, but I don't feel them; and they make me, O, so tired. They never say anything that makes me thrill all over as papa does. Don't you see now what I mean?”

“Yes, I see. Will you tell me after I have been here awhile, if I make you tired?”

“I need not tell you in words. You will see me get tired.”

“Very good. I hope I shall not weary you.”

“I can tell by to-morrow, and if I do look tired you will go, won't you?”

“Certainly; and for fear I may weary you now, I will retire, if you will promise to go too.”

She yielded willingly to Miss Vernon's wish, and was led to her room, where the sensitive, pure being was soon at rest.

It seemed almost too early for any one to be stirring, when Miss Vernon heard a little tap on her door, and the next moment beheld a childish face peeping in.

“May I come?”

“Certainly. I hope you have had pleasant dreams, Dawn. Can you tell me why they gave you such a strange name?”

“Strange? Why I am Dawn, that is the reason; and mamma was Twilight, only her mother did n't give her the right name.”

“Have you slept well?”

“I did n't know anything till I woke up. Was that sleeping well?”

“I think it was. Now will you tell me at what hour you have breakfast, that I may prepare myself in season?”

“When papa is at home, at eight o'clock. This morning I am going to see Bessie, the new calf, and Minnie Day's kittens, and Percy Willard's new pony, so Aunt Sue says she can have breakfast any time.”

Miss Vernon upon this concluded that she need make no hasty toilet, and sank back upon her pillow to think awhile of her new surroundings.

Breakfast waited, but no Dawn appeared. Aunt Sue, fearing that the toast and coffee might be spoiled, rang for Miss Vernon.

At eleven Dawn came in with soiled clothes and wet feet.

“O, Aunty, the pony was so wild, and the kittens so cunning, I could n't come before.”

“And see your clothes, Dawn. I must work very hard to-day to wash and dry them. Now go to your room and change them all, and try to remember others when you are in your enjoyments, won't you?”

“Yes, and I won't soil them again, auntie.”

“Until the next time, I fear,” said the kind housekeeper, who was, perhaps, too forgiving with the strange, wild child.

The next day Dawn was filled with delight at her father's return. He came early in the morning, and found his pet awake and watching for his approach.

“O, papa, such a dream, a real dream, as I had last night. Sit right here by the window, please, while I tell it to you.”

“Perhaps your dream will be so real that we shall not want anything more substantial for breakfast.”

“O, it's better than food, papa.”

“Well, go on, my pet.”

“I was thinking how glad I should be to see my papa, when I went to sleep and had this beautiful dream:—

“I was walking in a garden all full of flowers and vines, when I saw my mother coming towards me, with something upon her arm. She came close, and then I saw it was a robe, O, such a white robe, whiter than snow. She put it on me, and it was too long. I asked if it was for me why it was so long. 'You will grow,' she said, 'tall and beautiful, and need the long garment.' Then she led the way, and motioned me to follow. She led me down a dismal lane, and into a damp, dreadful place, where the streets were all mud and dirt. 'O, my dress,' I said, 'my pure white robe.' 'No dust and dirt can stain it,' she replied, 'walk through that dark street and see.' I went, and looked back at each step, but my pure white robe was not soiled, and when I returned to her, it was as spotless as ever. Was it not a lovely dream, and what does it mean, papa?”

“A lesson too deep for your childhood to comprehend, and yet I will some day tell you. But here comes Miss Vernon, and the bell has rung for breakfast.”