Miss Vernon was glad to go; and after a light supper, was on her way, almost fearful that the child might consider her an intruder, for she instinctively felt that she must work her way into the affections of her new charge.

She followed the path to the hill, and after walking for some time and not finding Dawn, was about to retrace her steps, when she heard a low, sweet voice, chanting an evening hymn.  She sat upon a bed of grey moss until the chanting ceased, and then went in the direction from which the sound came.

There sat Dawn, with eyes uplifted, lips parted as though in conversation, and features glowing with intensest emotion.  Then the eyes dropped, and her little hands were pressed to her heart, as though the effort had been too great.

Slowly Miss Vernon stepped towards her.  Dawn caught her eye, and motioned her to come nearer.

“Are you not lonely here, child?” she asked.

“Lonely?  O, no.  I am not alone, Miss Vernon, God is here, and I am so full I sing, or I should die.  Did you hear me?”

“I did.  Who taught you that beautiful chant?”

“No one; it grew in me; just as the flowers grow on the plants.”

“I have an instructor here, and one I shall find more interesting than tractable,” mused the governess, as she looked upon the child.  But Dawn was not learned in one day, as she afterwards found.

The sun sank behind the hills just as they entered the garden together.  Dawn missed her father too much to be quite up to her usual point of life, and she went and laid herself down upon a couch in the library, and chatted away the hour before her bedtime.  She missed him more than she could tell; and then she thought to herself, “Who can I tell how much I miss my father?”

“Did you ever have any body you loved go away, Miss Vernon?” she at last ventured to ask, and her voice told what she suffered.

“I have no near friends living, dear child.”

“What! did they all die?  Only my mamma is dead; but I don’t miss her; I think she must be in the air, I feel her so.  Have n’t you any father, Miss Vernon?”

“No.  He died when I was quite young, and then my mother, and before I came here I buried my last near relative-an aunt.”

“But aunts don’t know us, do they?”

“Why not?  I don’t quite understand you,” she said, wishing to bring the child out.

“Why, they don’t feel our souls.  I have got aunts and cousins, but they seem away off, O, so far.  They live here, but I don’t feel them; and they make me, O, so tired.  They never say anything that makes me thrill all over as papa does.  Don’t you see now what I mean?”

“Yes, I see.  Will you tell me after I have been here awhile, if I make you tired?”

“I need not tell you in words.  You will see me get tired.”

“Very good.  I hope I shall not weary you.”

“I can tell by to-morrow, and if I do look tired you will go, won’t you?”