'Tis the May-light
That crimsons all the quiet college gloom.
May it shine softly in thy sleeping room;
And so, dear wife, good night.'"
CHAPTER VIII.
THE MISTRESS OF BRIERWOOD COTTAGE.
"By night we lingered on the lawn,
For underfoot the herb was dry;
And genial warmth; and o'er the sky
The silvery haze of summer dawn;
"And calm that let the tapers burn
Unwavering: not a cricket chirr'd:
The brook alone far off was heard,
And on the board the fluttering urn."
Tennyson.
"A penny for your thoughts, little Emmie," cried Garth gaily, a few evenings afterwards, when his abrupt entrance had broken up a somewhat silent group. The child, who was sitting at Langley's feet as usual, with her head in her lap, held up her hand warningly.
"Hush! I was counting them; now I have lost one."
"Counting what, you small elf?"
"The angels, of course; we have had ever so many passing through the room this evening. Just now Langley sighed and disturbed one. They never come when we talk and laugh, you know," continued Emmie, with a child's beautiful unreasoning faith in what would seem to older minds a piece of fond superstition. "I do love a real long silence, when people are all thinking together; the angels have such a good time of it then."
"What a queer little thinking machine that is," muttered Ted, drowsily; but Garth only patted her head kindly.