d the massive chin, firm mouth and
large, thoughtful gray eyes of his grandfather Ruleson, and the
classical air of a thoroughbred ecclesiastic that had distinguished
Doctor Trenabie. Surely the two men who so loved him on earth hear the
angels speak of him in heaven, and are satisfied.

It was a coincidence that on the following morning, I found, in a
Scotch magazine, three verses by his Aunt Christine. In the present
stressful time of war and death, they cannot be inappropriate, and at
any rate, they must have been among the last dominant thoughts of my
heroine. We may easily imagine her, sitting at the open door of the
large room which gave her such a wide outlook over the sea, and such a
neighborly presence of the village, watching the ghost-like ships in
the moonlight, and setting the simple lines either to the everlasting
beat of noisy waves, or the still small voice of mighty tides circling
majestically around the world:

WHEN THE TIDE GOES OUT

Full white moon upon a waste of ocean,
High full tide upon the sandy shore,
In the fisher's cot without a motion,
Waiteth he that never shall sail more.
Waiteth he, and one sad comrade sighing,
Speaking lowly, says, "Without a doubt
He will rest soon. Some One calls the dying,
When the tide goes out."

Some One calls the tide, when in its flowing,
It hath touched the limits of its bound;
Some great Voice, and all the billows knowing
What omnipotence is in that sound,
Hasten back to ocean, none delaying
For man's profit, pleasuring or doubt,
Backward to their source, not one wave straying,
And the tide is out.

Some One calls the soul o'er life's dark ocean,
When its tide breaks high upon the land,
And it listens with such glad emotion,
As the "called" alone can understand.
Listens, hastens, to its source of being,
Leaves the sands of Time without a doubt;
While we sadly wait, as yet but seeing
That the tide is out.

This was my last message from Christine. For a few years she had sent
me a paper or magazine containing a poem or story she thought I would
like. Then Sarah Lochrigg sent me a Glasgow paper, with a sorrowful
notice of her death in it, declaring that "it could hardly be called
death. She just stepped from this life, into the next." Sarah, in a
later letter, added she had been busy in her house all morning and as
cheerful and interested abou