"The cool autumn evening,
The fair summer morn,--
The dress and the aspect
Some dear ones have worn,--
The sunshiny places--
The shady hill-side--
The words and the faces
That might not abide.--
"Die out little fire--
Ay, blacken and pine!--
So have paled many lights
That were brighter than thine.
I can quicken thy embers
Again with a breath,
But the others lie cold
In the ashes of death."
Mr. Carleton had read near through the paper before Fleda came in.
"I have kept you a long time, Mr. Carleton," she said coming up to the window; "I found aunt Lucy wanted me."
But she saw with a little surprise the deepening eye which met her, and which shewed, she knew, the working of strong feeling. Her own eye went to the paper in search of explanation.
"What have you there?--Oh, Mr. Carleton," she said, putting her hand over it,--"Please to give it to me!"
Fleda's face was very much in earnest. He took the hand but did not give her the paper, and looked his refusal.
"I am ashamed you should see that!--who gave it to you?"
"You shall wreak your displeasure on no one but me," he said smiling.
"But have you read it?"