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my life; because I have had strange ones of my own。 Sympathies; I believe; exist (for instance; between far…distant; long…absent; wholly estranged relatives asserting; notwithstanding their alienation; the unity of the source to which each traces his origin) whose workings baffle mortal prehension。 And signs; for aught we know; may be but the sympathies of Nature with man。

When I was a little girl; only six years old; I one night heard Bessie Leaven say to Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about a little child; and that to dream of children was a sure sign of trouble; either to one’s self or one’s kin。 The saying might have worn out of my memory; had not a circumstance immediately followed which served indelibly to fix it there。 The next day Bessie was sent for home to the deathbed of her little sister。

Of late I had often recalled this saying and this incident; for during the past week scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had not brought with it a dream of an infant; which I sometimes hushed in my arms; sometimes dandled on my knee; sometimes watched playing with daisies on a lawn; or again; dabbling its hands in running water。 It was a wailing child this night; and a laughing one the next: now it nestled close to me; and now it ran from me; but whatever mood the apparition evinced; whatever aspect it wore; it failed not for seven successive nights to meet me the moment I entered the land of slumber。

I did not like this iteration of one idea—this strange recurrence of one image; and I grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hour of the vision drew near。 It was from panionship with this baby… phantom I had been roused on that moonlight night when I heard the cry; and it was on the afternoon of the day following I was summoned do

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