from that moment, and, converting into money the not inconsiderable wealth with which I had surrounded myself in the shape of furs, horses, buffalo-robes, and so forth, I came down to the States again to begin life anew, a man of forty-five, my head whitened, and my features marked before their time from the life of exposure which I had led.  Alice, I, too, was too late.  I had dropped out of the tide of life and progress in my twenty years’ seclusion, and, struggle as I might, I could not retrieve the time lost.  The present age knew not of me,—­I had lost my place in it; the thoughts, feelings, habits, of all around were strange to me; I had been pushed out of the line of march, and never could I fall into step again.  In society, in business, in domestic life, it was all the same.  Trial after trial taught me, at last, the truth; and when I had learned not only to believe it, but to accept it, I came home to my father’s house, now mine, and made myself friends of my books,—­those faithful ones who were as true to me as if I had never deserted them.  They have brought me content, if not happiness; and you, Alice, you and Kate, you have filled fully an old man’s heart.”

Alice’s tears were dropping fast on Uncle John’s hand as she said,—­

“I will be more to you henceforward than ever before.  I have nothing else to live for now.  Kate is the home child; but I—­I will stay with you, and you shall teach me, too, to be contented,—­to find my happiness, as you do, in making the happiness of all around.”

Uncle John passed his other hand over her hair,—­

“You shall stay with me for the present, my darling,—­perhaps as long as I live.  But life is not over for you, Alice.  You have youth,—­you have years in store.  For you it is not too late.”

AN EVENING MELODY.

  Oh that yon pines which crown the steep
    Their fires might ne’er surrender! 
  Oh that yon fervid knoll might keep,
    While lasts the world, its splendor!

  Pale poplars on the wind that lean,
    And in the sunset shiver,
  Oh that your golden stems might screen
    For aye yon glassy river!

  That yon white bird on homeward wing
    Soft-sliding without motion,
  And now in blue air vanishing
    Like snow-flake lost in ocean,

  Beyond our sight might never flee,
    Yet onward still be flying;
  And all the dying day might be
    Immortal in its dying!

  Pellucid thus in golden trance,
    Thus mute in expectation,
  What waits the Earth?  Deliverance? 
    Ah, no!  Transfiguration!

  She dreams of that New Earth divine,
    Conceived of seed immortal: 
  She sings, “Not mine the holier shrine,
    But mine the cloudy portal!”

CHESUNCOOK

[Concluded.]