“Will you, dear Mac?” murmured he.

Then Mac, all full of solemn emotion, read through the grand periods of the Church Litany, and when he had finished, Clarian, with a thrilling “Let us pray,” offered up such a thanksgiving as I had never heard, praying to the kind Father who had so mercifully extricated him, that our paths might still be enlightened, and our walks made humble and righteous.

“Clarian,” said Mac, after a pause, when we were again on our feet,—­ he laid his hands on the boy’s shoulders, as he spoke, and looked into his eyes,—­“Clarian, would it have happened, if you had not taken that foul drug?”

Clarian shuddered, and covered up his face in his hands.

“Do not ask me, dear Mac! do not ask me!  Oh, be sure, my aims, I thought, were noble, and myself I thought so pure!—­but—­I cannot say, Mac, I cannot say.

“’We are so weak, we know our motives least In their confused beginning.’”

“At least, Clarian,” said Mac, after a while, his deep voice wonderfully refined with strong emotion, “at least, the picture was not painted in vain.  Even as it is in the play, Banquo died that his issue might reign after him; and this lesson of ours will bear fruit far mightier than the trifling pains of its parturition.  Ay, Clarian, your picture has not been vainly painted.—­And now, Ned,” said he, rising, “we must put our baby to bed; for he is to wake early to-morrow, and know himself a man!”

SPRING.

  Doves on the sunny eaves are cooing,
  The chip-bird trills from the apple-tree,
  Blossoms are bursting and leaves renewing,
  And the crocus darts up the spring to see.

  Spring has come with a smile of blessing,
  Kissing the earth with her soft warm breath,
  Till it blushes in flowers at her gentle caressing,
  And wakes from the winter’s dream of death.

  Spring has come!  The rills, as they glisten,
  Sing to the pebbles and greening grass;
  Under the sward the violets listen,
  And dream of the sky as they hear her pass.

  Coyest of roses feel her coming,
  Swelling their buds with a promise to her,—­
  And the wild bee hears her, around them humming,
  And booms about with a joyous stir.

  Oaks, that the bark of a century covers,
  Feel ye the spell, as ye groan and sigh? 
  Say,—­does her spirit that round you hovers
  Whisper of youth and love gone by?

  Windows are open,—­the pensive maiden
  Leans o’er the sill with a wistful sigh,
  Her heart with tender longings o’erladen,
  And a happy sadness, she knows not why.

  For we and the trees are brothers in nature;—­
  We feel in our veins the season’s thrill
  In hopes that reach to a higher stature,
  In blind dim longings beyond our will.

  Whence dost thou come, O joyous spirit? 
  From realms beyond this human ken,
  To paint with beauty the earth we inherit,
  And soften to love the hearts of men?