Well, it was yesterday. And the sun came,WhyIt came.

Exactly at midnightyesterday sighs away.

High in his chariot glow'd the lamp of day.

Failing yet gracious, Slow pacing, soon homing, A patriarch that strolls Through the tents of his children, The sun as he journeys His round on the lower Ascents of the blue, Washes the roofs And the hillsides with clarity.

Such words fall to often on our cold and careless ears with the triteness of long familiarity; but to Octavia . . . they seemed to be written in sunbeams.

Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.