Last of all come the Deaths,—­only one.  Poor Charlie!  How it looks?—­“Died 12 September 18—­Charles Henry, aged four years.”  You know just how it looks.  You have turned to it often; there you seem to be joined to him, though only by the turning of a leaf.  And over your thoughts, as you look at that page of the record, there sometimes wanders a vague shadowy fear, which will come,—­that your own name may soon be there.  You try to drop the notion, as if it were not fairly your own; you affect to slight it, as you would slight a boy who presumed on your acquaintance, but whom you have no desire to know.  It is a common thing, you will find, with our world to decline familiarity with those ideas that fright us.

Yet your mother—­how strange it is!—­has no fears of such dark fancies.  Even now as you stand beside her, and as the twilight deepens in the room, her low, silvery voice is stealing upon your ear, telling you that she cannot be long with you; that the time is coming when you must be guided by your own judgment, and struggle with the world unaided by the friends of your boyhood.  There is a little pride, and a great deal more of anxiety, in your thoughts now, as you look steadfastly into the home blaze, while those delicate fingers, so tender of your happiness, play with the locks upon your brow.

——­To struggle with the world,—­that is a proud thing; to struggle alone,—­there lies the doubt!  Then crowds in swift upon the calm of boyhood the first anxious thought of youth; then chases over the sky of Spring the first heated and wrathful cloud of Summer.

But the lamps are now lit in the little parlor, and they shed a soft haze to the farthest corner of the room; while the firelight streams over the floor, where puss lies purring.  Little Madge is there; she has dropped in softly with her mother, and Nelly has welcomed her with a bound and with a kiss.  Jenny has not so rosy a cheek as Madge.  But Jenny with her love-notes, and her languishing dark eye, you think of as a lady; and the thought of her is a constant drain upon your sentiment.  As for Madge,—­that girl Madge, whom you know so well,—­you think of her as a sister; and yet—­it is very odd—­you look at her far oftener than you do at Nelly!

Frank too has come in to have a game with you at draughts; and he is in capital spirits, all brisk and glowing with his evening’s walk.  He—­bless his honest heart!—­never observes that you arrange the board very adroitly, so that you may keep half an eye upon Madge, as she sits yonder beside Nelly.  Nor does he once notice your blush as you catch her eye when she raises her head to fling back the ringlets, and then with a sly look at you bends a most earnest gaze upon the board, as if she were especially interested in the disposition of the men.

You catch a little of the spirit of coquetry yourself,—­(what a native growth it is!)—­and if she lift her eyes when you are gazing at her, you very suddenly divert your look to the cat at her feet, and remark to your friend Frank in an easy off-hand way—­how still the cat is lying!