John Howard Payne walked dejectedly through the streets of Paris toward the cold garret where he slept. Misfortune and sickness had overtaken him. Suddenly, a door opened and a light streamed through. Into the arms of a man who stood upon the threshold leaped happy children, and a wife beamed a welcome. The door closed. Darkness fell again.

It had all happened in a twinkling of an eye, but that night, by candlelight, in his attic, tears streaming down his face, he wrote, "Home, sw ...

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