“It may not be just and so forth, but, after all, it is how things are. Crocodile Tears. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. "Ah! you are there, my dear young lady," said the widow, smiling faintly; "when I first waken, I'm always in dread of finding myself again in that horrible asylum. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot.
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