carrying her "over the hills and far away" into that dim past whence she
emerged, all happiness and health. The conscience now has loosened its
harsh rule. The memories play in her brain like children on a lawn, and
their merry music often drowns the dirges still sadly chanted in her
deeper soul. And thus the winter passes--not in a whirlwind of grief as
did the summer, whose days she never saw, or will not know she saw,
until they come again hot and heavy with the association of her
bitterness. But it is safe to say her dread of those days will exceed
the actual grief they cause her, and she can soon look back upon her
sorrow, and say that she has mourned