The poor little thing's fever encreased towards night. The sensation is most dreary, to use no stronger term, with which one looks forward to passing the long hours of night beside a sick bed, especially if the patient be an infant, who cannot explain its pain, and whose flickering life resembles the wasting flame of the watch-light,
Whose narrow fire
Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge
Devouring darkness hovers.
With eagerness one turns toward the east, with angry impatience one marks the unchequered darkness; the crowing of a c**k, that sound of glee during day-time, comes wailing and untuneable—the creaking of rafters, and slight stir of invisible insect is heard and felt as the signal and type of desolation. Clara, overcome by weariness, had seated herself at the foot of h
