"It's a ring, sir," said the dame, "was left me by a poor soul as was buried this morning. Some people thought it strange to see her so young by herself, but she wor a decent creature for all that, and did what she could in honesty. First she took to sewing, sir; but that didn't do, for she was sickly, and got worse, till at last she died, all alone in my two-pair back. And I'm sure that ring wor a love-token, or something of the sort, for she used to cry over it when no one was by, and once bade me take it when she was gone, because I minded her in her sickness; and I was just going to show it to Mrs. Tillet, when it dropped out of my fingers. But lauk, sir, there it is!"
"It's Emma Leveson's ring," said Charles, picking up the little turquoise from among the dust at his feet. "Was the woman's name Grace Greenside?"
"Just the same sir," said its new owner, clutching at the ring; "an' she was—"
"A fool," added a more than half-intoxicated soldier, with a long pipe in his mouth, lolling on the steps of an empty house as if they had been a sofa. "I tell you she was a fool; and I was a gentleman once in my day, but I was unfortunate. They wouldn't let me stay at college, though I kept the gamest pack in Cambridge; and after that I took—to a variety of business," said he, with another puff; "but if that girl had taken me at my word, I would have stood by her. See the foolishness of women! She would keep the old house, and transport Skulking Tom; he partly deserved it for hitting her so hard, and there's what's come of it." With a repetition of his last aphorism, the soldier smoked on, and Charles after a minute inspection, recognized in the dirty and prematurely old man his once boisterous class-fellow, Harry Williams. The time for remonstrance or improvement was long past with him, and Charles had grown a stranger to his memory; so, without word or sign of former acquaintance, he purchased the ring from that communicative old woman at about three times its lawful price, collected what further information he could regarding the deceased, and went his way.
"Ay," said Charles, gazing on the ring some time after, when the whole particulars of her story were gathered, "had she been worse or wiser, poor Grace would have fared better in this world;" and then he thought of the ring's first owner. But, before the period of his musings, Lady Annette and her niece had gone with some of their noble relations to spend the winter in Italy, Edmund Thornley accompanying them on a visit to his father's residence; and, in her latest letter to a confidential cousin, Emma had mentioned that his fine sense of propriety, and his enthusiasm for all that was great and good, made him a most delightful companion on the Continent.
THE GOLDEN AGE.
The father sits, and marks his child
Through the clover racing wild;
And then as if he sweetly dream'd,
He half remembers how it seem'd
When he, too, was a reckless rover
Among the bee-beloved clover:
Pure airs, from heavenly places, rise
Breathing the blindness from his eyes,
Until, with rapture, grief, and awe,
He sees again as then he saw.
As then he saw, he sees again
The heavy-loaded harvest wain,
Hanging tokens of its pride
In the trees on either side;
Daisies, coming out at dawn,
In constellations, on the lawn;
The glory of the daffodil;
The three black windmills on the hill,
Whose magic arms fling wildly by,
With magic shadows on the rye:
In the leafy coppice, lo,
More wealth than miser's dreams can show,
The blackbird's warm and woolly brood,
With golden beaks agape for food!
Gipsies, all the summer seen,
Native as poppies to the green;
Winter, with its frosts and thaws,
And opulence of hips and haws;
The mighty marvel of the snow;
The happy, happy ships that go,
Sailing up and sailing down,
Through the fields and by the town;—
All the thousand dear events
That fell when days were incidents.
And, then, his meek and loving mother—
Oh, what speechless feelings smother
In his heart at thought of her!
What sacred, piercing sorrow mounts,
From new or unremembered founts,
While to thought her ways recur.
He hears the songs she used to sing;
His tears in scalding torrents spring;
Oh, might he hope that 'twould be given.
Either in this world, or in heaven,
To hear such songs as those again!