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And I answered, "It must be your love that makes me so. I always said if only somebody would love me, I should grow beautiful."

Then I waked up, oh! so disappointed! But I always seemed to feel as if I had really been to heaven for a few minutes, after that.

Aunt Mercy stands to it that my dream meant something; that if I am good and true-hearted, the more I am tried, the better and purer I shall grow; giving sweets to others, as the flowers I trod on did to me. Perhaps -- and yet, I don't know.

I was just turned thirteen, when, at last, somebody wanted me. It was not because I was handsome, though, but because I could work. And oh! didn't they grind me? I had to do the washing and ironing, and scrub and scour and slave.

All this I should not have minded much if once in a great while they had given me a pleasant word, but that I never heard. The old gentleman (and his hair was as white as silver too,) used to swear at me, till my ears ached, for such little things! I always wanted to tell him my dream when he got in a passion, and ask him if he thought he was fit to go among pure angels and good spirits. At last he struck me over the head with his cane, and I couldn't bear that, so I ran away, ran back to the Home, and they received me, and pitied me; for the blue welts laid on my neck and shoulders then like great cords.

I had pretty much given up the notion that any one would ever love me, and consequently I formed a little world of my own. In this little world I imagined I had a mother, the sweetest looking woman I could picture, and a favorite sister whom I called Bessie, and a dear friend who loved me wonderfully, better than all the beauties living; but he was an extraordinary being, fit only to live in dreamland.

And so when they thought I was silent and stupid about my work, I was holding delightful conversations with my dear mother, whom I would never let do the least work, only knit sometimes; and I loved to picture her sitting at her ease and reading, while I toiled for her.

My lover was away all day. It was only when twilight came, and I stole by myself, that he would meet me. I remember the little bower I used to feign to go when he came. It was set in such a lovely garden! something like that heaven full of flowers that I had seen in my dreams. And he would tell me of the world outside, how he had been laboring for me; and then he would sing and play upon the piano, guitar and harp; for he was wonderously gifted, this airy lover of mine. And he would gather flowers for me, and make a wreath, and when I did not wish him to throw it over my hair because I was homely, he would always say, "But you are beautiful to me."

That made my heart beat and my eyes fill with tears. That satisfied the old longing in my soul, -- "you are beautiful to me."

I don't think we ever met together in that lovely trysting place, but he would repeat those words till I forgot, when in my little world, that I was ugly, and that my hair was red, and my face freckled.

I carried my world with me to the next place. It was not so hard for me there, though there was a cross, fretful old body to take care of, who always called me "stupid."

"What are you dreaming about now, stupid?" she would cry, "I never saw such a dolt. You are always in a brown study, and it tires me to look at you. Stop your dreaming."

Stop my dreaming! Give up my sweet, tender mother, my darling sister, my glorious, impossible lover! And I smiled to think how utterly impossible it was. I could bear cross speeches, rough usage -- but my dear day-fancies -- I could not part with them.

It is a year ago today since I wrote the lines above. The trees are talking to me, the sunshine comes in glorifying any pleasant room, while I sit and read them over, patiently, and then hasten to sit down and say, "it is all for the best -- everything!"

What if my birth was mean, and my childhood incomplete and suffering? Have I not wings folded up in my soul? Shall I not sing of God's merciful goodness in heaven?

And then my patient has grown kinder and more gentle. My precious dream-mother has faded a little, and I am confounded, sometimes, to find this old, angular countenance of the woman I live with taking her place.

My sweet Bessie is still sweet, gentle, beautiful, and I often open my heart to her, as of old; but I am astonished -- I say I cannot help, sometimes, being overwhelmed with astonishment, when I think that my impossible and gifted lover has given way to plain John Williams. Yes, plain, and angular, and not at all accustomed to the airy notes of music. I could laugh at the idea, he with his square fingers, horny with honest labor. But he is good and great in his honest, simple soul, and has grand thoughts for the world, and tender ones for me.

Yes, John is the grandson of the old lady I have been taking care of, and who, not long ago, adopted me as her dear daughter -- think of that! as her dear daughter!

And she is very glad that John loves me, and says I have no idea how much I have altered since then.