From The Sixpenny Magazine.
THE SUMMER DAYS ARE GONE.
The flowers that made the summer air
So fragrant with their rich perfume,
Alas! are gone, their leaves so fair
Lie faded in their autumn tomb.
The branches now are almost bare,
Where summer song-birds made their homes;
Where trees are green, where flowers are fair,
Once more the happy birds have flown.
To distant lands o'er sunny seas
The songsters bright have taken wing.
To warble on that warmer breeze
The notes they sang to us in spring.
Her autumn robe of red and brown
Once more the gliding year puts on,
And yonder sun looks colder down
Since the bright summer days are gone.
The stars, the glory of the night,
Look on us still with silvery eye—
Shine on us still as clear and bright.
But not from out the summer sky.
The chilly breezes of the north
Tell us it is no longer spring,
And winter's hand is reaching forth
To wither every verdant thing.
So even like the birds the flowers.
When dearest things of life have flown.
Then in the heart's deserted bowers
The naked branches stand alone.
Oh, then, alas! no breath of spring
Can breathe the living verdure on.
No sun will shine, no birds will sing—
For ever is the summer gone.
But when the heart beats high and warm.
And kindred hearts its throbbing share.
It heeds not winter's clouds nor storm,
But summer tarries always there.
From The Lamp.
UNCONVICTED; OR, OLD THORNELEY'S HEIRS.
CHAPTER XII.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
The tidings that Old Thorneley's missing will was found fell like a thunderbolt upon Wilmot and his lawyers, Smith and Walker; and their genuine astonishment was a matter of equal surprise to me. In my own mind I had felt convinced that Lister Wilmot had had a hand in the suppression of that will; and if I hardly dared in my heart to believe him guilty of, although suspecting him at least of complicity in, the death of his uncle, I never doubted but that he knew of the existence of this last testament, and knowing it, had destroyed it. In my own mind I had, during many hours of solitary reflection, of the most scrutinizing study of every fact and circumstance connected with all these past events, arrived at a conclusion that some unknown link united Maria Haag and Lister Wilmot together, and that the double mystery of the murder and the lost will lay buried secret in their hearts. But there was no mistaking the undisguised and overwhelming amazement with which he received the communication of Merrivale and myself. We made it in person to him before Smith and Walker; and I can only say that his manner of receiving it exonerated him at once in my eyes from suspicion of his having had anything to do with the theft or concealment of that will.
Of course on either side legal proceedings were commenced: Merrivale on the part of Hugh Atherton undertaking to prove the genuineness of the recovered document; Smith and Walker for Lister Wilmot endeavoring to repudiate it. In less than a week they were all "hard at it." Meanwhile, the will, as stolen property found by the police, was lodged with them; meanwhile, Inspector Keene had once more disappeared, and this time we all knew that the purport of his absence was the apprehension of Mrs. Haag; meanwhile, the heir to all this mine of disputed wealth played with his childish toys, laughed his crazy laugh, and jabbered his idiot nonsense, without the ray of intelligence crossing his for witless brain; meanwhile, Hugh Atherton roamed far over the broad treacherous ocean—an exile and a wanderer, the victim of a cruel and shameless plot—ignorant of the brave loving heart that was following him so near, all of the tender eyes, the faithful hand, that would bid him welcome on that foreign shore.