“I cannot love as I have loved,
    And yet I know not why;
  It is the one great woe of life,
    To feel all feeling die;
  And one by one the heart-strings snap,
    As age comes on so chill;
  And hope seems left, that hope may cease,
    And all will soon be still. 
  And the strong passions, like to storms,
    Soon rage themselves to rest,
  Or leave a desolated calm—­
    A worn and wasted breast;
  A heart that like the Geyser spring,
    Amidst its bosomed snows,
  May shrink, not rest, but with its blood
    Boils even in repose. 
  And yet the things one might have loved
    Remain as they have been,—­
  Youth ever lovely, and one heart
    Still sacred and serene;
  But lower, less, and grosser things
    Eclipse the world-like mind,
  And leave their cold, dark shadow where
    Most to the light inclined. 
  And then it ends as it began,
    The orbit of our race,
  In pains and tears, and fears of life,
    And the new dwelling place. 
  From life to death,—­from death to life,
    We hurry round to God,
  And leave behind us nothing but
    The path that we have trod.”

She knew whose hand had copied these words, and how keenly the heart that sensed their meaning was suffering, and yet she could not place her hand upon its beatings and quell its throbs.

“Why! how came this from Ralph’s folio?  The wind must have taken it out,” said Miss Weston, noticing the paper, while holding the picture for her friend to look at.  Dawn did not reply to her inquiry, but gave her words of praise and encouragement, while her thoughts were afar from forest, friends and picture.

“Come, Auntie, it’s time for the luncheon, your father says, and we have it almost ready.”

She arose, and with Miss Weston joined the party, thinking how strange it was that those lines should come to her; for something seemed to tell her that they had been accidentally placed in the folio, as they were evidently not intended for any eye but that of the writer.

The luncheon was partaken of with more avidity by the others than by Dawn, whose mind was constantly reverting to the words which she had read.

“Now for the story, Auntie,” said Herbert, seating himself on the grass, beside her.

“Do you remember the name of the nymph I am going to tell you about?”

“Yes, it was-it was Echo.”

“Very good.  I am glad you remembered it.  Well, Echo was a beautiful wood-nymph, fond of the woods and hills, where she devoted herself to woodland sports.  She was a favorite of Diana, and attended her in the chase.  But Echo had one failing; she was fond of talking, and would always have the last word.  One day Juno was seeking her husband, who, she had reason to fear, was amusing himself among the nymphs.  Echo by her talk contrived to detain the goddess till the nymphs made their escape.  When Juno discovered it, she passed sentence upon Echo in these words:  You shall forfeit the use of the tongue with which you have cheated me, except for that one purpose you are so fond of—­reply.  You shall have the last word, but no power to speak first.