On the last day of the old year, she was so much occupied in her preparations for the morrow’s festival, that the last hour of the day was approaching, before she made her good night’s call in the nursery.  She first went to the crib and looked at the baby.  There he lay in his innocence and beauty, fast asleep.  She softly stroked his golden hair—­she kissed gently his rosy cheek—­she pressed the little dimpled hand in hers, and then, carefully drawing the coverlet over it, tucked it in, and stealing yet another kiss—­she left him to his peaceful dreams and sat down on her daughter’s bed.  She also slept sweetly, with her dolly hugged to her bosom.  At this her mother smiled, but soon grave thoughts entered her mind, and these deepened into sad ones.  She thought of her disappointment and the failure of her plans.  To her, not only the past month but the whole past year, seemed to have been one of fruitless effort—­all broken and disjointed—­even her hours of religious duty had been encroached upon, and disturbed.  She had accomplished nothing, that she could see, but to keep her house and family in order, and even this, to her saddened mind, seemed to have been but indifferently done.  She was conscious of yearnings for a more earnest life than this.  Unsatisfied longings for something which she had not attained, often clouded what, otherwise, would have been a bright day to her; and yet the causes of these feelings seemed to lie in a dim and misty region, which her eye could not penetrate.

What then did she need?  To see some results from her life’s work?  To know that a golden cord bound her life-threads together into unity of purpose—­notwithstanding they seemed, so often, single and broken?

She was quite sure that she felt no desire to shrink from duty, however humble, but she sighed for some comforting assurance of what was duty.  Her employments, conflicting as they did with her tastes, seemed to her frivolous and useless.  It seemed to her that there was some better way of living, which she, from deficiency in energy of character, or of principle, had failed to discover.  As she leaned over her child, her tears fell fast upon its young brow.

Most earnestly did she wish, that she could shield that child from the disappointments and mistakes and self-reproach from which the mother was then suffering; that the little one might take up life where she could give it to her—­all mended by her own experience.  It would have been a comfort to have felt, that in fighting the battle, she had fought for both; yet she knew that so it could not be—­that for ourselves must we all learn what are those things which “make for our peace.”

The tears were in her eyes, as she gave the good-night to her sleeping daughter—­then with soft steps she entered an adjoining room, and there fairly kissed out the old year on another chubby cheek, which nestled among the pillows.  At length she sought her own rest.