CHAPTER I.
MAG SMITH, MY MOTHER.
Oh, Grief beyond all other griefs, when fate First leaves the young heart lone and desolate In the wide world, without that only tie For which it loved to live or feared to die; Lorn as the hung-up lute, that ne'er hath spoken Since the sad day its master-chord was broken! MOORE.
LONELY MAG SMITH! See her as she walks with downcast eyes and heavy heart.

It was not always thus.

She HAD a loving, trusting heart.

Early deprived of parental guardianship, far removed from relatives, she was left to guide her tiny boat over life's surges alone and inexperienced.
As she merged into womanhood, unprotected, uncherished, uncared for, there fell on her ear the music of love, awakening an intensity of emotion long dormant.

It whispered of an elevation before unaspired to; of ease and plenty her simple heart had never dreamed of as hers.