The next day, Thornton Lee received a small packet, accompanied by a note which ran thus:—
"To do justice to the memory of one who, years ago, came between us, I send you this little book, found in the old well yesterday. From it you will learn how she came by her death, and—how much she loved you. ELEANOR PURCILL."
As Thornton Lee read the journal, his children climbed his knee and twined his gray curls around their fingers, and his wife came and leaned sportively over his shoulder and looked at the yellow leaves.
In some lives, as in some years, there is an after-summer; but in others, the hoar-frosts are succeeded by the winter snow.
THE DEAD HOUSE.
Here once my step was quickened,
Here beckoned the opening door,
And welcome thrilled from the threshold
To the foot it had felt before.
A glow came forth to meet me
From the flame that laughed in the grate,
And shadows a-dance on the ceiling
Danced blither with mine for a mate.
"I claim you, old friend," yawned the arm-chair,—
"This corner, you know, is your seat."
"Rest your slippers on me," beamed the fender,—
"I brighten at touch of your feet."
"We know the practised finger,"
Said the books, "that seems like brain";
And the shy page rustled the secret
It had kept till I came again.
Sang the pillow, "My down once quivered
On nightingales' throats that flew
Through moonlit gardens of Hafiz
To gather quaint dreams for you."