Then higher lift your eyes, to meet
Your Master's tender gaze,
And say, "Dear Lord, thy will in us complete,
And pardon our delays."
--_Jessie H. Brown_.
ONE LITTLE WIDOW
Seven years a widow, yet only eleven years old! The shadow--nay, the
curse--of widowhood had hung over little Sita ever since she remembered
anything. The little brown girl often wondered why other little girls
living near her had such happy, merry times while she knew only drudgery
and ill treatment from morning until night. One day when six of the weary
years had passed, and she was ten years old, Sita found out what widow
meant. Then, to the cruelties she had already endured, was added the
terrors of the woe to come. She had gone, as usual, in her tattered
garments, with three large brass water-pots on her head, to the great open
well from which she drew the daily supply of water for a family of nine.
She was so tired, and her frail little back ached so pitifully, that she
sat down on a huge stone to rest a minute. Resting her weary head on one
thin little hand, she was a picture of childish woe.
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