I had my misgivings, however, and the moment our visiter turned his back, I asked to see the book.  My old neighbour reddened, stammered, and tried to change the conversation; but, forced behind his last entrenchments, he handed me the little volume.  It was an old Royal Almanac.  The bookseller, taking advantage of his customer’s ignorance, had substituted it for the book he had demanded.  I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter; but No. 12 checked me with the only impatient word I ever heard from his lips:  “Do you wish our friend to hear you?  I would rather never recover the power of this lost arm, than deprive his kind heart of the pleasure of his gift.  And what of it?  Yesterday I did not care a straw for an almanac; but in a little time it is perhaps the very book I should have desired. Every day has its to-morrow.  Besides, I assure you it is a very improving study; even already I perceive the names of a crowd of princes never mentioned in history, and of whom, up to this moment, I have never heard any one speak.”

And so the old almanac was carefully preserved beside the volume of poetry it had been intended to match; and the old invalid never failed to be seen turning over the leaves whenever our friend happened to enter the room.  As to him, he was quite proud of its success, and would say to me at each time:  “It appears I have made him a famous present.”  And thus the two guileless natures were content.

Towards the close of my sojourn in the hospital, the strength of poor No. 12 diminished rapidly.  At first, he lost the slight powers of motion he had retained; then his speech became inarticulate; at last, no part obeyed his will, except the eyes, which continued to smile on us still.  But one morning, at last, it seemed to me as if his very glance had become dim.  I arose hastily, and approaching his bed, inquired if he wished for a drink; be made a slight movement of his eyelids, as if to thank me, and at that instant the first ray of the rising sun shone in on his bed.  Then the eyes lighted up, like a taper that flashes into brightness before it is extinguished—­he looked as if saluting this last gift of his Creator; and even as I watched him for a moment, his head fell gently on the side, his kindly heart ceased to beat.  He had thrown off the burden of To-day; he had entered on his eternal To-morrow.

TO AN ABSENTEE.

  O’ER hill and dale, and distant sea,
    Through all the miles that stretch between,
  My thought must fly to rest on thee,
    And would, though worlds should intervene.

  Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks,
    The farther we are forced apart,
  Affection’s firm elastic links
    But bind thee closer round the heart.

  For now we sever each from each,
    I learn what I have lost in thee;
  Alas! that nothing less could teach
    How great, indeed, my love should be!