er than of old. The tall, rank
grass has many times been trodden by the lingering feet of the
funeral-train, and fresh sods laid down above many a heart at rest
forever. Voices beloved, and voices little heeded, have grown silent
during these seven years. Some have died and have been forgotten; some
have left a blank behind them which twice seven years shall have no
power to fill.

The people have changed somewhat, some for the better, some for the
worse. Judge Merle has grown older. His hair could not be whiter than
it was seven years ago, but he is bent now, and never forgets his staff
as he takes his daily walk down the village street; but on his kindly
face rests a look of peace, deeper and more abiding than there used to
be. His kind and gentle wife is kind and gentle still. She, too, grows
old, with a brightening face, as though each passing day were bringing
her nearer to her hope's fulfilment.

Deacon Sterne is growing older; his outward man gives no token thereof.
His hair has been iron-grey, at least since anybody in Merleville can
remember, and it is iron-grey still. He looks as if seven times seven
years could have no power to make his tall form less erect, or to soften
the lines on his dark, grave face. And yet I am not sure. They say his
face is changing, and that sometimes in the old meeting-house on Sabbath
afternoons, there has come a look over it as though a bright light fell
on it from above. It comes at other times, too. His patient wife,
pretending to look another way as he bends over the cradle of his wilful
William's little son, yet turns stealthily to watch for the coming of
the tender smile she has so seldom seen on her husband's face since the
row of little graves was made in the church-yard long ago. By the
deacon's fireside sits a pale, gentle woman, Will's bride that was,
Will's sorrowing widow now. But though the grave has closed over him,
whom his stern father loved better than all the world beside, there was
hope in his death, and the mourner is not uncomforted; and for the
deacon there are happier days in store than time has brought him yet.

Deacon Slowcome has gone West, but, "yearning for the privileges he left
behind,"--or not successful in his gains-getting, is about to return.
Deacon Fish has gone West and has prospered. Content in his heart to
put the wonderful wheat crops in place of school and meeting, he yet
deplores aloud, and in doleful terms enough, the want