you would tell what troubles you."

She hesitated a moment; and when, at last, she spoke, her answer rather
surprised me.

"I ought not to be so weak, I know," she replied; "but it is so hard to
stand all alone, to live my life just right, that sometimes I get
discouraged."

I had expected complaints of ill treatment, but found her blaming no one
but herself.

"And who said you must stand alone?" I asked.

"That was one of the things my mother used to say."

"And what other things did she say?"

"Oh, Mr. Browne," she replied, "I wish I could tell you about my mother!
But I can't talk; I am too ignorant; I don't know how to say it. When
she was alive," she continued, speaking very slowly, "I never knew how
good she was; but now her words keep coming back to me. Sometimes I
think she whispers them,--for she is an angel, and you know the hymn
says,

'There are angels hovering round.'

When we sing,

'Ye holy throng of angels bright,'