"My son," he meditated, "is a lawyer in good practice. He needs no fortune. Twenty thousand will be enough for him; more than I had, which wasn't a penny. My daughter is married rich. Didn't mean to have any pauper son-in-law to be plaguing me. The same for her. The rest will square those old accounts,—and the new one, too, on the book up yonder! Best to fix it now, while I can muster the courage. If I once get the money, I'm afraid I shouldn't do it. So my will shall set all these matters right; and it shall be drawn and signed to-day."
That night Mr. Bullion needed no servant to watch with him. The ghosts were laid.
[To be concluded in the next number.]
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INSCRIPTION
FOR AN ALMS-CHEST MADE OF CAMPHOR-WOOD.
This fragrant box that breathes of India's balms
Hath one more fragrance, for it asketh alms;
But, though 'tis sweet and blessed to receive,
You know who said, "It is more blest to give":
Give, then, receive His blessing,—and for me
Thy silent boon sufficient blessing be!
If Ceylon's isle, that bears the bleeding trees,
With any perfume load the Orient breeze,—
If Heber's Muse, by Ceylon as he sailed,
A pleasant odor from the shore inhaled,—
More lives in me; for underneath my lid
A sweetness as of sacrifice is hid.
Thou gentle almoner, in passing by,
Smell of my wood, and scan me with thine eye;—
I, too, from Ceylon bear a spicy breath
That might put warmness in the lungs of death;
A simple chest of scented wood I seem,
But, oh! within me lurks a golden beam,—
A beam celestial, and a silver din,
As though imprisoned angels played within;
Hushed in my heart my fragrant secret dwells;
If thou wouldst learn it, Paul of Tarsus tells;—
No jangled brass nor tinkling cymbal sound,
For in my bosom Charity is found.
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