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As is thy sleep, so is thy life when thou awakest; for thy deeds are akin to thy dreams, and the fair fruitfulness of thy waking life is governed by the depth to which, while thy body sleeps, thy soul extends its roots beyond the veil 0f the invisible. —William Henry Phelps

When I was a very little child we lived in an old house around which were old-world gardens full of the dear old-fashioned flowers; long stone paths, edged with the low box borders, meandered in and out under the fruit trees, and in the quiet evening hundreds of nightingales made the air alive with song. And I, a little wondering maiden, used to wander alone in the great garden, peeping into all the flowers for angel faces, sometimes stooping down to lift up the hanging bell to gaze into its depths, and again standing on tiptoe to look over the edge of the big silent lily, or into the deep heart of the rose, always looking, and always expecting to find those angel faces. All down the long paths I wandered, listening, always listening for voices that I knew were speaking, if I could only hear! Since then long years have passed away, and I have found The Garden of Silence at last; and finding it, I have found the angel faces and heard those silent voices for which my heart yearned so long ago in that other garden. And believing that what I have seen, and what I have heard, may comfort others, I, in this little book, pass on a portion of all that has come to me in my Garden of Silence.

—Lily L. Allen
Ilfracombe, England

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Lily L. Allen

  • Born on December 30th, 1867 at Burrishoole, Eire
  • Wife of author James Allen
  • Wrote many books of her own

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