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<< The lovely wife, maternal care, The self-denying zeal, The smile of hope that chased despair, And promised future weal;

"The clean, bright hearth, nice table spread, The charm o'er all things thrown, The sweetness in whate'er she said, — All gone! I am alone.

"I slept last night, and then I dreamed; Perchance her spirit woke; A soft light o'er my pillow gleamed, A voice in music spoke:

"* Forgot, forgiven, all neglect. Thy love recalled, alone; The babes I loved, O love, protect, I still am all thine own.' "

"Dear bereaved and sorrowing daddie!" sighed Jean, as she closed the book. "I cannot write a word to-night. Sacred to him and his be the page on which he has inscribed these echoes of his heart. But let nobody say, after this, that daddie has no sentiment in his make-up. The trouble is that he is too busy a man to give rein to his feelings, except under extraordinary pressure. I wish he hadn't tried to throw away those heirlooms of mother's, though. The oxen wouldn't have felt the difference in the load. It was an act that he'll be ashamed of some day.'^

Weeks after, when the memory-hallowed relics came to light. Captain Ranger bowed his head upon his hands and gave way to such a convulsion of grief as had not shaken him, even at the time of her transition. Jean had good cause to recall the stanzas he had inscribed to her mother's memory in her battered journal, as she said to herself: " I knew all the time that daddie's heart was right. It is only necessary to touch it in the proper place to show that it is tender." Once more she closed the book without having written a word.

But we must not anticipate.