"'We too have passed over life's wild stream
In a frail and shattered boat,
But the pilot was sure--and we sailed secure
When we seemed but scarce afloat.
"'Though tossed 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 soothed and softened 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, won't you read Mr. Carleton the Chestnuts?"
"Why no, Edith, I think not."
"Ah do! I like it so much, and I want him to hear it,--and you know mamma says they're all pretty. Won't you?"
"My dear Edith, you have heard it once already to day."