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Age is a dreary thing when left alone: It needs the sunshine brought by fresher years; It lives its youth again while seeing youth, And childhood brings its childhood back again. But for the lonely and the aged man Left to the silent hearth, the vacant home Where no sweet voices sound, no light steps come Disturbing memory from its heaviness— Wo for such lot! 'tis life's most desolate! Age needeth love and youth to cheer the path— The short dark pathway leading to the tomb.

" Lord Marchmont not yet come in?" asked the countess, with a degree of impatience which her husband's return was not commonly in the habit of calling forth. "No, my lady," replied the servant. "You will let me know the moment he comes in."