“Cavendish—what, little Henry Cavendish?” exclaimed the gentleman, eagerly seizing my hand, “yes! it is even so, although the years that have passed since you used to visit Pomfret Hall have almost eradicated your features from my memory. God bless you, my gallant young friend! We owe you our lives—our all.”
The scene that ensued I will not attempt to describe. Suffice it to say I retired that night with a whirl of strange emotions at my heart. Was it Love?
A SONG.
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BY J. R. LOWELL.
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Violet! sweet violet!
Thine eyes are full of tears;
Are they wet