we rejoiced in our situation all the more, and looked complacently on the great mainspring of our comfort, the glowing stove, which imparted its grateful caloric through the apartment, and bore on its polished surface shining evidence of the housewife’s care.  ’Twas apparently already a favourite, and the storm without had enhanced its value.  Without dissent, all agreed in its perfection and superiority over ordinary fire-places.

Twas a theme which called forth conversation, and when all had given their opinion, uncle Ethel was asked for his.

The person so addressed was an aged man, who reclined in an arm chair apart from the others, sharing not in words with their discourse or mirth, but smiling like a benignant spirit on them.  More than eighty years of shade and sunshine had passed o’er him.  The few snowy locks which lingered yet around his brow were soft and silky as a child’s—­time and sorrow had traced him but a gentle path, ’twould seem by the light which yet beamed in his calm blue eye and placid smile, the expression was far different from mirthful happiness, but breathed of holy peace and spirit pure, tempered with love and kindness for all—­living in the past dreams of youth, he loved the present, when it recalled their sweet memories in brighter beauty from the tomb of faded years, and then it seemed as if a secret woe arose and dimmed the vision when it glowed brightest.  A deeper sorrow than for departed youth flashed o’er his brow, brief but fearful, as though he once, and but once only, had felt a pang of agony which had deadened all other lighter woes, and, overcome by resignation, left the spirit calmer as its strong feeling passed away.  Such was what we knew of uncle Ethel, but ere the night had worn we knew him better.  Joining us in our conversation regarding the stove, he smiled, and said he agreed not with us—­our favourite was more sightly, and more useful, but it bore not the friendly face of the old hearthstone—­one of memory’s most treasured spots was gone—­the fireside of our home—­the thought of whose hallowed precincts cheers the wanderer’s heart, and has won many from the path of error, to seek again its sinless welcome.

’Tis while sitting by the fireside at eve, said he, that the vanished forms of other days gather round me—­there where our happiest meetings were in the holy sanctity of our home.  Where peace and love hovered o’er us, I see again kind faces lit by the ruddy gleam, and hear again the evening hymn, as of old it used to rise from the loving band assembled there.  Alas! long years have passed since I missed them from the earth, but there they meet me still—­in the glowing fire’s bright light I trace their sweet names, and the vague fancies of childhood are waked again from their dim repose to live in light and truth once more, amid the fantastic visions and shadowy forms, flitting through the red world of embers, on which I loved to gaze when thought and hope were young.  I love it even now—­the sorrow that is written there makes it more holy to my mind, telling me, as it does, of a clime where grief comes not, and where the blighted hope and broken heart will be at rest.