"Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn laughing, "I take that remark as a compliment, sir. I have always appreciated that writer's pieces--I enjoy them very much."
"Well, won't you please read it, Mr. Carleton?" said Florence, "and let us know what we are talking about."
Mr. Carleton obeyed, standing where he was by the centre-table.
"By the old hearthstone a Spirit dwells,
The child of bygone years,--
He lieth hid the stones amid,
And liveth on smiles and tears.
"But when the night is drawing on,
And the fire burns clear and bright,
He Cometh out and walketh about,
In the pleasant grave twilight.
"He goeth round on tiptoe soft,
And scanneth close each face;
If one in the room be sunk in gloom,
By him he taketh his place.
"And then with fingers cool and soft,
(Their touch who does not know)
With water brought from the well of Thought,
That was dug long years ago,
"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 whispered 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.