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