“And don't you know, sir,” asked Edward, “what became of Louis afterwards?”

“I really do not,” replied the gentleman, smiling; “but I doubt not that the man kept the promise of the heroic boy; and I think it extremely probable that he has led some gallant fellows to those deeds of high emprise which were achieved by the armies of Louis fourteenth.”

“My dear children,” said Mrs. Sackville, “you must really ask no more questions. You will be good enough to pardon,” she added, turning to the stranger, “the eagerness of their youthful curiosity.”

“Oh, madam,” he replied, “the evidence of curiosity is the most grateful reward to a story-teller, and I feel that my acknowledgements are due to your children for their patient listening.”

A few more courteous words passed, and the stranger bowed and departed.

“This was a lucky meeting, mother,” said Edward; “this crazed leaning wall looks quite interesting to me now. I can almost fancy I see Marguerite and Louis issuing from the gate—Louis holding up the bow and arrow that was to do such memorable service that night.”

“You have had a good lesson this morning, my children, on the pleasures of association. When we first saw that ruin, it looked to you like any other stone wall—mere mason-work: and you, Julia, afraid of being buried in its shadow, wondered what interest any one could feel in looking at it; and now, I see you are venturing on the most tottering part of it for a piece of moss, which I suppose is to be carefully treasured in your herbal.”

“Yes, mama, as a keep-sake for Marguerite and Louis.”

---

We shall not condemn our readers to attend the travellers in their tedious passage down the St. Lawrence. Sometimes a favoring breeze filled the single sail of their little boat, and aided by the oars of the lazy boatmen, wafted them gently forward, till, coming to a more rapid descent in the river, their light vessel seemed urged on by an irresistible force to the ‘rapids,’ where the waves, fretting and foaming over the invisible rocks, threatened to engulph it. The boatmen threw themselves prostrate on the bottom of the boat to avoid the splashing of the waves; their oars lay useless beside them, while the pilot strained every nerve to guide the boat in safety through the perilous channel. These passages, like the brilliant events of life, are rare and brief, and are succeeded by the sleepy lakes of the river, bordered by shores uniformly low and monotonous, save where the green mountains of Vermont dimly define the eastern horizon.

Arrived at Montreal, Mrs. Sackville, from consideration for Mrs. Barton, determined to avoid delay, and therefore deferred the examination of this city, so singular and picturesque to an American eye, till their return from Quebec. There was, however, no boat to sail before the evening, and a half day of leisure afforded our industrious travellers an opportunity to visit the churches and convents of Montreal.

The churches are spacious, and decorated with gaudy tinselled ornaments, and indifferent pictures. Edward and Julia were dazzled and delighted with the seeming splendor. A little demure Presbyterian girl, who acted as their guide, smiled at the animated expressions of their wonder. “Notre Dame, is,” she said, “as my grandmother often says, just fit for a baby-house for children.”

This remark caused a sudden revulsion in Edward's mind. He had a truly manly, or rather boyish aversion to be suspected of a juvenile taste, and averting his eye from his conductor, it fell on a miserable, half-famished looking old woman, who was kneeling in one of the aisles absorbed in her devotions.

“Look there, mother,” said he, pointing to the wretched object, “what a contrast to all this pomp.—It reminds me of an anecdote I have somewhere read of a pious pilgrim to whom one of the popes was ostentatiously displaying the decorations of the Vatican.

“Dites à ces ornemens,” said the pilgrim, “de se changer en pain.”[4]

Quite satisfied with this display of his superiority to the childishness indirectly ascribed to him by his conductor, though it was entirely lost on her, Edward left the church, and attended his friends to the Hotel Dieu, the convent of the black nuns. They were shown the different apartments by one of the sisterhood, a well-bred Irish lady, whose fine intelligent dark eyes, benevolent and happy expression of countenance, and short plump figure, made a delightful impression on Edward and Julia, who had always fancied a nun must be tall and thin, with a sad solemn face, condemned to wither under an immoveable veil. She led them to the hospital where the sick of every nation are received and treated with equal kindness according to the law of christian benevolence, which is of universal obligation.

“Do the rules of your order, (the order of St. Joseph I believe,”) inquired Mr. Sackville of the sister, “impose on you the performance of severe penances?”

“No,” she replied, “we are exempted from extraordinary penances, on account of the fatiguing and often loathsome offices that we have to perform for the sick; these are received as sufficient mortifications. We open our doors to the sick mendicant and wounded soldiers. We had in this apartment at one time during the late war seventeen American soldiers.”

“My countrymen,” replied Mr. Sackville, “had abundant reason to be grateful that they fell into your skilful and benevolent hands,—the beautiful order and neatness of your hospital prove with what fidelity your samaritan duties are performed.”

While the nun, courteously bowing her head at this merited compliment, led the way to an adjoining ante-room appropriated to medicines, surgical instruments, &c. Mrs. Sackville said in a low voice to Edward, “Take notice, my dear son, that where the precepts of the christian religion are strictly applied they produce the same fruits; no matter by what name the particular faith is called, Catholic or Protestant.”

“Oh look there, mother,” exclaimed Julia, pointing to large cases with glass doors which contained the medicines, “I am sure that in spite of your laws of association, those vials and gallipots look quite beautiful.”

“And I suspect they contain nothing very disagreeable,” replied her mother; “these sisters do not appear to deal in the harsh medicines of our daring doctors, but content themselves with emollients and palliatives. See those labels, ‘eau hysterique’—‘eau celeste;’ even you, Julia, would have no objection to medicines that deserve such pretty appellatives.”

From the Hotel Dieu they went to the chapel and sacristie. Julia pointed to the altars on which were standing vases filled with white lilies and carnations. “Every where, mother,” she said, “we see these beautiful flowers, even in the churches.”

“And they are certainly not inappropriate, Julia,” replied her mother, “in His temple whose pencil paints and breath perfumes them.”

After all had been shown that is usually exhibited, the sister invited her visiters to go to the garden. Mrs. Sackville said that though she had heard it much extolled, their time would not permit them the pleasure of seeing it, but she said there was a farther trouble that she must venture on imposing. She understood the sisters sometimes permitted their visiters to buy specimens of their work; and she was anxious to carry some to their friends.

Their conductor seemed gratified with this hint, and directly left them, and returned with a large basket filled with embroidered needle-books, reticules, work-boxes, purses, scissor-cases, &c. &c.

Edward and Julia eagerly examined the beautiful productions of the taste and industry of the cloistered sisters. Edward was particularly struck with a sack or purse, made of birch bark, and wrought with porcupine quills of the richest dyes. On one side of it was an indian woman, carrying an infant according to the aboriginal fashion, laced to a board which was laid on her back; the little creature's head was just visible, peeping over her shoulder. A boy was standing beside her with a bow and arrow, on the reverse was a group of indians seated under an oak tree, smoking the long feathered and beaded pipe, which they call the calumet of peace, “Oh, mother,” said Edward, holding up the sack, “is not this very valuable?”

“It is certainly very handsome,” replied his mother.

“But that is not all, mother—it is certainly very valuable, as an illustration of indian customs.—I wish”——he added and paused.

“What do you wish, Ned?” asked his mother.

“Nothing, mama,” he replied, sighing, laying down the sack, and turning away; “I only wish I had not seen it.”

Julia was all this time looking at a very curious work-basket, which she thought a masterpiece. She turned it from side to side, examined the roses, carnations, jessamines, and violets, that had been wrought with such exquisite skill as to represent to the life the peerless flowers they were made to imitate; and for one moment she too wished that her five dollars was still at her own disposal. Mrs. Sackville read what was passing in the minds of her children. She took them aside: “My dear Ned and Julia,” she said, “I fear you may be regretting your hasty benevolence, when you devoted to a charitable purpose all the money your father gave you for such gratifications as are now offered to you; you did it from a sudden impulse of generosity: you have, I believe, as yet expended but a small portion of your money, and if you now prefer to appropriate it to the purchase of these very tempting articles, I will myself assume the expense of getting Mrs. Barton to Quebec.”

Edward and Julia looked at their mother, and at one another without replying a word. Mrs. Sackville returned to the table to make some selections for herself.

“What had we best do, Ned?” whispered Julia.

“Why do you ask me, Julia? you know as well as I. I should like to have something to show that I had been in Canada.”

“So should I excessively—but then”—

“But what, Julia? I am sure mama says it shall make no difference to Mrs. Barton.”

“No, that is true—it will make no difference to her; but it will make a great difference to us.”

The last member of Julia's sentence was quite lost on Edward, for he had abruptly returned to the table, and to the examination of the coveted purse. Julia stood for one half instant wavering, and then walked to a window, and kept her eye steadily fixed on the garden it overlooked. Mrs. Sackville ventured one glance at her children. ‘Ah,’ thought she, ‘Julia, you will prove faithful, but Ned I fear for you; ‘he who deliberates is lost,’’ Her mind was more intent on her children than on the little traffic she was making, and when she had set aside articles to a considerable amount, and was about to pay for them, the nun said, “I think, madam, you might make a better selection—allow me to exchange this basket for the awkward one you have there. I am a little vain of this, for I made it myself, and I should have begged your daughter to accept it when I saw her admiring it, but these articles are devoted to a specific object, and I have no control over them. I should, however, be particularly gratified if you would purchase this for Miss Julia, instead of that you have taken.”

“You are very good,” replied Mrs. Sackville, “but I have permitted my daughter to select for herself. Julia, do you hear what this lady says?”

“Yes, mama.”

“Will you look at the basket, my love?”

“No, I thank you, mama.”

This last reply was uttered in a faltering voice, and caught Edward's attention. He had just taken out his pocket-book to pay for the purse. He looked towards Julia, and then to his mother. Mrs. Sackville's eyes were fixed on Julia with an expression of love and approbation which flashed to Edward's heart; he dropped the purse, put up his pocket-book, and going up to his sister, whispered a proposal that they should return to the inn, without waiting for their mother to finish her business.

They then took a respectful, though rather a hurried leave of the kind sister, impatient to be out of sight of a temptation, which no one will deride as inconsiderable, when it is remembered that Edward was twelve, Julia ten years old.

“What upon earth ails the children?” asked Mr. Morris, who saw that something agitated them. Mrs. Sackville explained as far as she could without making a display of their charity. “They are good children, very good children,” said Mr. Morris, “and I think you have tried them a little too far, sister; but, dear souls, it shall all be made up to them. Where is that purse poor Ned was fingering? and that basket for Julia? I'll buy them both; they shall have them.”

“No, my dear brother, you must not indeed interpose your kindness—you will spoil all. The result has proved that I did not try them too far, though I confess I was at one time a little afraid I had done what I have often seen children do, pulled up the flower in trying to ascertain whether it had taken root. I have now more confidence that their hearts have that good soil into which the roots of virtue may strike deeply; and they now know the full cost of a charitable action which is performed by the voluntary and deliberate sacrifice of personal indulgence.”

“You are right, perfectly right my dear,” said Mr. Sackville.

“Yes, I believe you are right,” said Mr. Morris, reluctantly replacing the articles, “but it's deuced hard upon the children.”

“It is more blessed to give than to receive,” said the nun, in a sweet tone of voice, and added, “I assure you madam, I never missed a sale of our little wares with so much satisfaction.”

The visiters then took leave of the amiable sister, and in the course of the evening embarked on board the steam-boat. When they arose in the morning, they had already reached the mouth of the Sorrel. It was one of the most beautiful of all the bright days of summer. A gentle west wind tempered the sun's heat, and if, as saith the good book, ‘a cheerful countenance betokeneth the heart in prosperity,’ it might be inferred from the happy faces of our friends, that their minds were as bright and clear as the cloudless sky. Even Mrs. Barton had lost her downcast despondent look, and the pleasant light of gratitude and hope was diffused over her honest countenance. Edward and Julia were unusually animated, and their mother observed their joyous step as they bounded over the decks, their sparkling glances, and their gleeful chatterings which fell like music on her ear: she traced their uncommon spirits to the little struggle and victory of the preceding day, and rightly, for it is active goodness that commands the secret spring of joy—virtue that opens all the sweet fountains of happiness within us.

It was late in the afternoon when the level and uniform shores of the river, studded with an unbroken line of white-washed houses, or only broken where they clustered around a catholic church, as children gather under the wing of a parent, began to assume more picturesque forms. Bold promontories stretched into the river, and beautiful hills presented their verdant and graceful slopes to the clear mirror. There was a band of musicians on board the boat, who at the command of the captain, (who understood the laws of international courtesy,) had been playing yankee doodle. Edward was far enough from home to feel grateful for this tribute from the English captain, and when the music suddenly changed, at a signal from him, to a mournful requiem, Edward inquired with a look of disappointment, the cause of the transition.

“Look there,” he replied, “my young friend, at that pretty grassy point. It is called Cape Laboniére; just above the point you see a thicket of tall trees, which extend their shadows now beyond the church. Under those trees were buried three beautiful girls, the daughters of the honourable Mrs. Laboniére. The young ladies were called by the villagers, ‘Les sœurs de la charité;’ and are now, I am told, reckoned as their guardian saints by these poor catholic peasants. I happened to be there when the last was buried. You know the catholics have great pomp and expense at their funerals; but I believe the childless parents had no heart for this, for though the father is seignior of the place, and a man of great wealth, he granted the request of the poor villagers who went in a body to him, to beg permission to bury their beloved benefactress. I saw the procession—every one in it was a mourner. The girls strewed the grave with white roses, and all, even the old men and the little children, shed tears on the turf that covered it; and I could not but think how much better than their consecrated water were these tears of gratitude. We call the place the ‘Three sisters,’ now,” concluded the captain, “and I never pass it without some tribute of respect.”

---

Before nine o'clock the steamboat was gliding along under the heights of Quebec. Having, as Mr. Morris (who kept strict note of time) remarked, achieved a sail of 180 miles in 18 hours. Edward stood on the deck beside his mother, straining his eyes to the proud summit of Cape Diamond, where the British flag waved in a flood of moonlight. “Oh, mother,” he exclaimed, “what a kind friend the moon has been to us.”

“She has indeed,” replied Mrs. Sackville; “and I am very glad that you notice and enjoy her favors; her pale crescent was reflected in the waters of Ontario—her beams revealed to us some of the secret places of the ‘thousand isles’—the glittering spires of Montreal sent back her silver rays, and now she pours a flood of light from her full orb, upon these fortified heights. But, come, dear Ned, I believe it is time for us to leave the moon, and attend to our sublunary concerns. Your uncle has gone to settle our bill, and you had best attend to yours.” Julia poured the contents of her purse into Edward's, and he left them, and returned in a few moments holding a single shilling between his fingers; “here is all we have left,” he said; “what is to be done now, mother? I cannot bear to turn poor Mrs. Barton adrift the moment we arrive.”

“No, dear Ned,” replied his mother; “she shall be cared for still further. I had too much respect for good examples,” she continued, smiling, “to spend all my money for fancy articles, and I shall take Mrs. Barton to the City Hotel with us, till she can make some provisions for herself. I confess I have not much expectation that the governor will think proper to do any thing for her, but your father has letters to him, and he will call at the Chateau to-morrow, and say and do what he can in her behalf.” Mrs. Barton received this additional kindness with unfeigned gratitude; “But after to-morrow, ma'am,” she said, “I will trouble you no further, for I am sure to find some acquaintance here, who will help me to shift for myself.”

The next morning passports were procured to visit the fortifications. Edward, who had a great regard to our own heroes and patriots, had previously sallied forth in quest of the spot where the gallant Montgomery fell in our cause; and his father, after awaiting his return for some time, proceeded without him, leaving a note of directions how he should follow him.

Edward obeyed the directions. He reached Cape Diamond without meeting his friends, and he was biting his lips with vexation, that he should have come to this celebrated fortification alone, without any one to explain it to him, and must leave it as ignorant as he had entered; when he was accosted by a good natured looking soldier, who, doffing his military cap and making a slight bow, said, “This is a pleasant place, young gentleman, of a sunny summer's day.”

Edward turned his bright glance on the man, delighted to have found any one who could answer the questions that were rushing to his lips. “Is not that,” he said, pointing to the island opposite, “the island of Orleans?”

“The very same, sir: and the point there, is point Levi, which Wolfe fortified, and destroyed from it all the lower town of Quebec: but brave as he was, I think he never would have come within the rampart, if Montcalme had not been the fool to go out and meet him on the Plains of Abraham—once there, you know, we beat of course; for, other things being equal, one Englishman is as good as two Frenchmen any day—and that's what every English soldier knows.”

“But,” replied Edward, with a smile, “what every French soldier does not admit I suspect.”

“No—no—not exactly—for you know they are a bragging nation.”

“Well,” said Edward, “they seem to have something to brag of about you here in these beautiful villages:” and he pointed towards Beauport and Charlebourg, whose white houses, green fields, and churches, seem to promise every thing that poets have dreamed of village simplicity, peace, and contentment.

“Yes, sir,” said the soldier, “those have a decent genteel appearance from here, but if you were once to go to them, and see the houses like painted pigeon-holes—white without, but within full of all manner of uncleanliness; the bits of gardens with little but onions in them; whole fields overrun with Canada thistles; and then the little bits of dowdy images that they worship; and slivers of wood set in frames, that they call pieces of the true cross, and there are enough of them, as I have heard said, to build a seventy-four. If you were to see all this, my young master, you would agree with me, they were but a set of poor ignorant superstitious deluded creatures, far enough behind us English, or even the Americans.” The soldier then proceeded to point out and name the most attractive objects from this commanding point of view. The deep black ravine, through which the Montmorenci, after taking its graceful and wondrous leap, passes into the St. Lawrence; and the indentation of the shore beyond the Plains of Abraham, called Wolfe's Cove, where he landed his forces on the morning of his victory and death. Edward found it very difficult to tear himself from a spot which has so much natural beauty, and historic interest, but anxious to follow his friends, he offered the soldier a few pieces of change, and asked him if he was willing to show him the fortification, and then guide him to the Plains of Abraham, whither his father had gone.

The soldier civilly, and indeed thankfully assented, and they proceeded together. The man, evidently pleased with the intelligent questions put to him by Edward, which he answered in a way that indicated a knowledge of his profession quite unusual in a common soldier. Edward inquired the design of the Martello towers, of the bastions, scarps and counterscarps, of this fosse, that glacis, &c. &c. at last, stopping suddenly, while his dilating form and beaming face expressed the youthful heroism that glowed in his breast, he said, “It is a strong place, a very strong place indeed; but I do think we could take it.”

“We!” exclaimed the soldier, darting at him a look of eager inquiry; “who are we?”

“Why, we Americans.”

“Americans!” echoed the soldier, and then starting back and dashing the silver Edward had given him to the ground. “Have I,” he said, “served my king four and twenty years, to be bribed by an American boy at last? has it come to this, Richard Barton?”

“Richard Barton!” echoed Edward in his turn.

“Yes, my young man, Richard Barton; a poor name, but an honest one, thank God.”

“Richard Barton!” again repeated Edward. “But it cannot be the Richard Barton I mean.”

“I don't know who you mean, sir, but I shall take care and report you to my officer, and clear myself of all blame.”

“Do not be so hasty, my good friend,” said Edward, with an expression of innocence and good nature, that went far to remove the honest soldier's suspicions; “it is true I have troubled you with a great many questions, but I had no motive but curiosity; we yankees, you know, are a curious race. Come, I shall hold you to your agreement; take up the money and go along with me.”

“No—no—I never will touch the money; but I will go with you, there can be no harm in that.”

“Well,” said Edward, picking up the pieces, “if you won't take it, I know a Richard Barton that will, and he shall have it too; and now, if I was not afraid you would take me to the guard-house, I would put some more questions to you.”

“Oh, put them and welcome, young man; now I know that you are an American, I can use my discretion in my answers. You do not look as if you could do wrong yourself, or tempt another: but I have lived long enough to know that it is not all gold that glitters, though I think nothing but true metal can bear the stamp that is on your face.”

“We are friends again then, are we? Can you tell me where the 40th regiment is stationed now?”

“That I cannot; they have been gone from here three years this July.”

“Had you any acquaintance in that regiment?”

“Indeed had I. I served with them more than twenty years.”

Edward stopped, jumped at least three feet from the ground, (as the soldier afterwards averred) clapped his hands, and exclaimed, “It must be—it must be.”

“Why, what is the matter now?” asked the soldier, amazed at his emotion.

“Tell me,” continued Edward, with all the calmness he could summon, “why you are here, if your regiment has returned?”

“I got myself transferred to this regiment, to finish my term of service in America, in the hope of then finding my wife and little boy, who followed me to the States when I was a prisoner.”

There was no longer any room in Edward's mind for doubt that his companion was the husband of Mrs. Barton. His natural and first impulse was, to make known to the husband the happiness that was in store for him. He began to speak, half laughing, half crying; then checked himself, and considered what a beautiful surprise it would be if they should meet without any preparation: he took the soldier's hand, and said, “I see my friends; you need go no farther; but come in one hour to the City Hotel, and my mother will tell you good news of your wife.”

“News of my wife! are you an angel from heaven?”

“Oh, no,” replied Edward, laughing; “nothing but an American boy.”

“God bless you, my lad, tell me now—tell me now,” said the soldier, and tears of joy had already gathered in his eyes.

“No, not another word now,” said Edward, bounding away from him; “in one hour you shall know all.”

The soldier gazed after Edward with an intense curiosity: vague expectations of some good, and then more defined hopes filled his mind. ‘That boy never could have deceived me,’ he said, to himself: ‘what did he mean by exclaiming when he first heard my name? what, by saying he knew another Richard Barton? Is it possible that he has seen my wife and boy?’ The result of all his deliberations was, that he would go instantly to the Hotel—to wait an hour was impossible—an hour was an age. In the mean time, Edward joined his party, who were already on the return, and was chid for his delay; without giving the least heed to the rebuke, he drew Julia aside, and communicated his discovery to her. They then laid their heads together, and concerted a fine plan for a denouement.

They would first show Barton the little girl; he could not remember her of course, for she had been born some months after he was separated from his wife; but then he might find her out from her resemblance to her mother; Julia remembered many stories she had read of similar discoveries, and Edward affirmed his belief in natural affection, though he allowed that his father said, that Dr. Franklin and many other philosophers laughed at the idea. If the little girl proved an insufficient clew, Dickey was to be brought into the room, as if accidentally, and with many cautions by no means to tell his name; and finally the door was to be thrown open, and good Mrs. Barton, all unprepared for the sight, was to behold her long-lost husband. Mrs. Sackville saw in the truth-telling faces of her children, that something in their view very important was in agitation; but she seemed to take no notice of their whisperings, and hurried pace, till Mr. Morris called out, “Fall back children, one would think we were walking for a wager; remember we carry weight of years.”

“Oh,” whispered Julia, “uncle Morris is such a snail; but there is no use in our hurrying, because you know we should lose half the pleasure if papa and mama and uncle were not there.” Edward assented, and patience had her perfect work while the children made their feet, which seemed suddenly to have been furnished with the wings of Mercury, to keep time with the dignified movements of their parents.

When they turned into St. John's-street, and came in sight of the hotel, Edward saw the soldier standing by the step to the front entrance, and looking eagerly towards him, “there he is!” said he to Julia, and they both involuntarily changed their pace from a walk to a run, but before they reached the hotel, the soldier sprung into the door, and disappeared from their sight. He had caught the sound of his wife's voice, and their first joyful recognition had passed before the children entered the door.

---

Our youthful readers have, we trust, been entire strangers to those joys that are preceded by suffering, and which remind us of some clouds that send down their showers after the sun has broken through. They would have been as much surprised as were Edward and Julia, if they had seen, instead of smiles and ecstasies, the deathlike paleness of Mrs. Barton, her husband dashing the tear from his eyes that he might gaze upon his children; Dickey looking timidly at him, and the little girl burying her face in her mother's gown. Yet this was joy—joy that no words could express; the joy of kind and faithful hearts—joy with which a stranger cannot intermeddle; and Mrs. Sackville felt it to be such, for when she saw the family group, she drew her children into the parlour, and left their humble friends to themselves.

---

It was our intention to have described the soldier's gratitude—the contentment and thankfulness of his wife—the neat little cottage in which she was immediately placed by the officers of the regiment, who seemed delighted thus to manifest their regard for their corporal Barton. The emotion of this good family at parting with their benefactors—little Dickey's resolution, that when he grew to be a man, he would go and live with Mr. Edward—the hospitable honors rendered to the Sackville party by the officers of the regiment, who felt their beneficence to the British soldier's wife as a personal obligation—to which was to have been added, a particular description of some very beautiful curiosities presented to Edward and Julia by the governor's lady; but we fear our young readers will think we have already protracted a dull tale to an unconscionable length; and we will therefore take our leave of them, with simply expressing a wish, that if they should ever travel to Quebec, or indeed in any other direction, they will remember that after the delightful but evanescent pleasures of their jaunt had faded, and were almost effaced from the minds of Edward and Julia, they possessed a treasure that fadeth not away in the consciousness of having rendered an essential service to a fellow-creature. A consciousness that strews roses in the path of youth and age—not ‘the perfume and suppliance of a moment,’ but those amaranthine flowers that exhale incense to Heaven.

FINIS.