midnight
Florence dropped the curtain , and , returning to the table , opened a large morocco-bound volume , which revealed a virgin page . Twirling the silver top from a carved , mosaic inkstand , she dipped the golden tips of a pearl-handled pen in its ebon contents , and holding it between her small , taper fingers , rested her arm a few moments on the stand , as if waiting for her thoughts to form and arrange themselves ere she gave them expression . Suddenly the pen dashed off , and line after line of graceful characters grew on the pure , white page till it was completely filled . `` I have looked out on the midnight , '' she wrote , `` with all its countless diamonds blazing on its brow ; and far on the verge of the northern horizon hung the pale disc of the young crescent moon hurrying to obscure itself behind the dark , gloomy forest , -- like as my hopes fail when I turn my eyes toward those cedar-tops . O , earth , how soon thy children learn the lesson of sorrow and distrust ! But where is my old pen taking me this evening ? This journal grows a sad , ghostly thing , o'ersplashed with tears , and wo-fraught to the edges .