not in a single tone disturb
the heavenly harmony of the hour, for it was the voice of the orphan
dependent of the house, Miriam Haven, whose dark-bright eye and graceful
form glimmered, as though she were the spirit of all the softened beauty
of the scene, from amid the broom-corn, where she was busy in one of the
duties of the season. Well might she sing the song of lament, for her
people had gone down far away in the sea, and her lover--where was he?

Far away--far away are they,
And I in all the world alone--
Brightly, too brightly, shines the day--
Dark is the land where they are gone!

I have a friend that's far away,
Unknown the clime that bears his tread;
Perchance he walks in light to-day,
He may be dead! he may be dead!

Like every other condition of the time, the voice of Miriam too, had a
change in it.

"What wonder is this?" said old Sylvester, "I neither hear nor see as I
used--are all my senses going?"

He turned, as he spoke, to a woman of small stature, in whose features
dignity and tenderness mingled, as she now regarded him, with reverence
for the ancient head of the house. She came forward as he addressed her,
and laying her hand gently on his arm, said--

"You forget, father; this is the Indian summer, which is the first
summer softened and soberer, and often comes at thanksgiving-time. It
always changes the country, as you see it now."

"Child, child, you are right. I should have known it, for always at this
season, often as it has come to me, do I think of the absent and the
dead--of times and hours, and friends long, long passed away. Of those
whom I have known," he continued eagerly, "who have fallen in battle, in
the toil of the field, on the highway, on the waters, in silent
chambers, by sickness, by swords: I thank God they have all, all of my
kith and kin and people, died with their names untouched with crime;
all," he added with energy, planting his feet firmly on the ground and
rising as he spoke sternly, "all, save one alone, and he--"

He turned toward the female at his side, and when he looked in her face
and saw the mournful expression which came upon it, he dropped back into
his chair and stayed his speech.

At this moment a little fellow, who, with his flaxen locks and blue
eyes, was a very cherub in plumpness and the clearness of his brow, came
toddling out of the door of the house, struggling with a basin of yellow
corn, which, s