SORROW was a lovely slender child, with dark hair that framed her pale face. Her delicate lips were nearly always closed, her black eyes looked deadly weary, so that none could behold her without weeping. The poor child had no home, and wandered restlessly from place to place. Now she entered the hut of the poor, now the palace of the rich. She was so silent and sad that all received her, but, strange to tell, all who looked at her were attacked with a great woe. One lost his only child, another his honor, his property, a third was pursued by enemies without a cause. Again, another knew but grief from his children, so that he grew gray before his time. Or strife arose between married folk, or one of the family fell prone upon a sick bed and did not arise thence for years. People looked at one another astounded whence came so much affliction, and knew not that they themselves opened the doors to pale, silent Sorrow, and called her to their table. Sometimes the poor child came back by the same road and learnt what terrible gifts she had bestowed. Then she avoided for a long time visiting at the same houses; but she had grown to love some people, and longed to see them, and did not notice that she visited them too often. So grief upon grief befell them, until the sad child took up her staff and bade them farewell with heavy heart and streaming eyes. She went on her road quietly, not in haste, not hurriedly, and yet her step was faster than the mountain stream, faster than the west wind, so that at last she came to lodge with every human being. It was most terrible when she attached herself to children. Then the poor little things got long illnesses or even became orphans, and their pretty faces grew pale and delicate, like to Sorrow's face, and their eyes as sad and heavy. When Sorrow saw this she would weep bitterly, and for a long while would look at no child, ay, even turn her head aside when children were at play.

One day she lay beneath an apple-tree, and saw how the little apples had such merry red cheeks, that it made one glad to look at them.

"Oh, dear apple-tree," said Sorrow, "give me such merry red cheeks, then people will like better to look at me."

"No," said the apple-tree, "if you had merry red cheeks, people would no longer harbor you from pity."

She got up sadly and pursued her road. Then she came to a garden hard by a river, in which there was such song of birds that it made one's heart leap for joy.

"Oh, you dear little birds," cried Sorrow, "give me some of your lovely song, that I may make mankind glad."

"No, dear child," twittered the birds; "if you did not come so silently and go so quietly, men would not forget you so soon, and begin to notice that you are Sorrow, and bring them grief."

And yet further roamed poor Sorrow and came to a tall wood. Its scent was delicious, and it was so pleasant to walk on the thick moss beneath the trees. Here and there sun-gleams stole through the whispering foliage, and trembled and danced upon the moss, gilding the faded leaves. It was beautiful! The child leant wearily against a tree.

"Here I may lodge and bring no grief; here I may rest, and no one look himself ill at me."

A sunbeam came leaping through the leaves, looked into the dim, lovely eyes, sprang into them, illumined them brightly, and pierced down into Sorrow's very heart. The whole wood saw the wonderful gleaming of that tender girlish face, and rustled for pleasure and admiration. Sorrow did not know that she had grown more beautiful, but she felt the sunbeam tremble hot and joyous in her heart.

"Oh, dear wood," she cried, aloud, "give me but a single one of all your thousand sunbeams, and I shall be happy."

Of a sudden all grew deadly still in the wood; the trees looked at one another sadly, the sunbeam fled from Sorrow's eyes, touched a lustrous lizard, and then hid beneath tall ferns.

"You poor, poor child!" said an old oak; "a single sunbeam makes you too beautiful, men would call you too much and often, and then they would have to bear pains far beyond their strength. You must remain without cheer or warmth."

Slowly a hot tear fell upon the woodruff that grew at Sorrow's feet; it sent up sweet odors and whispered thanks for this dew.

But the restless maid went further, and she came to a large silent lake. Here nothing stirred, only Evening stepped across the waters, wrapped in shade, while round about him red rays darted through the lake, and here and there a star fell into it and remained unmoved on its quiet expanse. Sorrow dipped her hand into the waters and laid it on her brow. Evening came by and whispered, "Good-night; sleep dreamlessly, forget thy woe." She looked after him long, and sighed softly—

"Once I found rest in the wood; once I forgot my woe when the sunbeam was in my heart; but that is past."

Lost in dreams, the child gazed into the lake whence blew cool airs, while the nixes floated in mist across it.

Then Sorrow perceived that a red light fell into the lake, larger, fiercer than the stars, and it continued to gleam far into the night. As she lifted her eyes, she noticed that the light came from a house beside the water. It was thickly grown with ivy, and from its high-pointed window that stood open there shone this light.

"Strange," thought Sorrow, "I have never entered here, and yet there is some one watching yonder."

She made her way to the window. There sat a stately woman with snow-white locks, wrapped in a long soft gown. A delicate kerchief was bound round her forehead. She wrote sedulously, with firm characters, in a large book. Her brow was marked with a deep stern furrow, but about her delicate nostrils and lips there were signs of tender womanliness and nobility of heart. Sorrow stood sunk in contemplation. Then two wondrous gray eyes were uplifted and looked at her calmly, and a deep melodious voice said—

"Why do you not come in, child; I have waited for you long."

Sorrow entered amazed. She did not often hear this greeting. Of a sudden she found herself encircled by soft arms, and the wondrous woman took her on her lap, kissed her, and said—

"Dear Sorrow, you had to find me; I might not seek you, for I never come uncalled. I am Mother Patience, and I sit here and listen and watch. The lake bears to me the voices of all those who call me. Often and often have I stepped in your footprints, but alas! not ever."

The furrow in her brow deepened as she spoke these last words. Sorrow laid her head on this motherly breast.

"Oh, go with me, ever and ever," she craved, softly.

"No, child! when you call me then I will come, and when you are weary turn in here. I have to write the Book of Life; that gives me much to do."

Poor little Sorrow remained all night with the wise mother, and next morning she went on her journey refreshed and strengthened. The whole earth was blooming and green, for it was harvest time. Sorrow looked at the poppies and the corn flowers and thought—

"You poor things! now you are blooming so merrily and gleaming in the sunshine, and yet to-day you will all be mown down."

Then she perceived a burly maiden, who stood alone in a field, and mowed as fast as three men.

"Good morning, pale one," she called to Sorrow, in roguish tones. "Come here, and help me."

And so speaking she ran towards her, her locks flying and her blue eyes laughing like sunshine.

"But who are you?" she asked, amazed, when she saw Sorrow's dark eyes.

"I am Sorrow, and I must wander for ever. And who are you?"

"I am Work; cannot you see that? Do you not see how healthy I am, and what strong arms I have."

And with that she took up Sorrow like an infant upon her arms, and ran with her all over the field, and laughed and shouted gleefully. A faint tinge of red came over Sorrow's face as she said smiling—

"Come with me, do. I may never rest, and yet I am often so weary."

"That may not be, my little sister, for I must sleep in order to be fresh again in the day. But I am in all places, and must laugh, yet when I see your eyes my laughter is choked. But when you call me I will come, and remain behind whence you depart, to make the faces glad again."

Once more Sorrow stepped forth into the glittering morning and into the wide wide world. But Work and Patience kept faith and became her trusty companions. And many a time they met together of an evening in the house by the lake, and read out of the Book of Life or wrote in its pages.