his mother at the last? He had not wanted for good resolves; he was always full of them. The copy-text, the first long word of which had in that school-room so often bothered, now recurred to him, "Procrastination is the thief of time." He had since

got by memory the lines that followed them, and he repeated them half aloud.

"Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves

The vast concerns of an eternal scene-
If not so frequent, would not this be strange?
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.
Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears
The palm, That all men are about to live'
For ever on the brink of being born;
All pay themselves the compliment to think
They one day shall not drivel; and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise:
At least their own, their future selves applauds,
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead.

And that through every stage. When young, indeed,

In full content we sometimes nobly rest
Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish,

As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty man suspects himself a fool,
Knows it at forty and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought

Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same.'

"And what's the cure for all this?" thought Pierce; "the constant probing of the sore? But will it not grow callous? No! Conscience grows persuasive as we listen to her. The fear is in her silence; for 'dangers are no more light if they once seem light.' These little incidents, for aught we know, may have some great design and end. But they wait for me below!"

So hurrying from this room, he passed on to one that had been his mother's sittingroom. Long-forgotten scenes started up, and shaking off the burden of past years, welcomed the spirit that unlocked their rusty

fetters, and leapt into his heart with with all the freshness of their birth-day. There remained the table now unclothed, ungarnished, at which, standing upon a footstool to be level with its height, he had followed the pointings of his mother's finger over the picture of the spelling-book; there the cupboard, where lodged the store of winter clothing for the poor-where, hidden for glad surprise, his playthings lay, and whence, on choice occasions, the sugar-plum or “goody” box was drawn to reward-forsooth obedience.

Obedience! If that mother were now alive, how could obedience reward her love! The sugar-plum had been a reward for goodness to himself, not to her. What she

exacted was for his good, not her's. All motive with her was love. He could not show or tell her now how much he owed, how much he loved her. She was no longer in that room, and never, never would be more.

He passed on, and stood in a sort of gloomy gallery-along its walls were hung a score or more of ancestors. Here a noted soldier, there a lawyer, a sportsman, a burly, sleek-faced justice. It was a proud thought to see his forefathers so well to do-himself the heir of so much gentility. Then the women, some with sweet innocent faces, some prude, some in attitudes, and one beautiful slim form dressed gracefully in white, who had six fingers, and was said to haunt the house. He had an affection even for this romantic ghost. Again he paused before another portrait, and as he gazed upon the face, he shuddered and sighed.

Surely," he exclaimed, "there must, in those days, have been some kindred blood between us! This girl's features bear all the character of your's-that strange commingling of pride and meekness-of pride to man and meekness to God. Yet pride is not the word, but a look of something

Even

more pure, more lofty than pride, before which mere pride shrinks to shame. Oh, Eda! I look upon these forms dressed in the garb of centuries gone by! Once they, as I, looked back upon the past, and now themselves are forgotten with the past. I, the only remnant of their race, know not their forgotten names. All the members of my own generation-faces I used to think inseparable from these chambersare now as far removed as they; none but an old and grave-stamped servant is left to own and recognize me. Very shortly shall my name be remembered only on the tomb as theirs are. What matters it then that you will never share my thoughts, my feelings? A few years and both of us will

have passed away.

Were you with me what sweetness is in the thought!—were you here, I still should be reminded such happiness was but transient, I still would feel, and bid you share