"He layeth his hand on the weary eyes
They are closed and quiet now;
And he wipeth away the dust of the day
Which had settled on the brow.
"And gently then he walketh away
And sits in the corner chair;
And the closed eyes swim it seemeth to him
The form that once sat there.
"And whisper'd words of comfort and love
Fall sweet on the ear of sorrow;
'Why weepest thou? thou art troubled now,
But there cometh a bright to-morrow.
" 'We, too, have pass'd over life's wild stream
In a frail and shatter'd boat,
But the pilot was sure and we sail'd secure
When we seem'd but scarce afloat.
" 'Though toss'd by the rage of waves and wind,
The bark held together still,
One arm was strong it bore us along,
And has saved from every ill.'
"The Spirit returns to his hiding-place,
But his words have been like balm.
The big tears start, but the fluttering heart
Is sooth'd, and soften'd, and calm."
"I remember that," said Florence; "it is beautiful."
"Who's the writer?" said Mr. Stackpole.
"I don't know," said Mrs. Evelyn, "it is signed 'Hugh'. There have been a good many of his pieces in the Excelsior, for a year past, and all of them pretty."
"Hugh!" exclaimed Edith, springing forward, "that's the one that wrote the Chestnuts! Fleda, wont you read Mr. Carleton the Chestnuts?"