e them the storm without comes in a heavier, fiercer gust. I
hear it rush in a whirl up the street. I see it almost lift the heavy
curtains over the window, as if it would come in and rest itself. I
hear it whistling through all the cracks and keyholes of the house--
whistling dismally. Its voices, and the rumbling of a hack in some
neighbouring street, remind me of storms I have heard, lying comfortably
in my snug attic bed in the old house on the cape--the wind and the
waves dashing up the rocky shore.

That strong whiff disturbed pussy's and "the Captain's" (so I have
called my old setter friend) nap, for puss stands up on her morocco bed
and arches her back like a horseshoe, and then springs, with a
jolted-out "mew-r-r-r," right on my table, and proceeds to walk over
this manuscript, carrying her tail up as if she wanted to light it by
the gas and beg me then to touch it to my pipe and stop scribbling. So
I shall presently. And the Captain strolls up to lay his cold nose on
my knee, slowly wag his silky tail, and look kindly into my face with
those soft, big eyes, as if he would say, "Come, master, don't be
low-spirited."

You are right, old fellow! I was somewhat sad about leaving the
pleasant companionship I have held through my pen with brothers and
friends of the old time, and a goodly number of those who are young now,
while I am so no longer, except in memory and heart. Youth has come
back with these pages, and perhaps you are tired with me, but I--I shall
never tire of the _young_--the glorious companionship of the pure,
merry, brave hearts that look undaunted and without suspicion on the
great road stretching far into the Future, and fading only to reappear
in mirages of splendour in a brilliant sky.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

There! I have smoked my pipe: and now, Miss Puss, stretch yourself in
the chair again, and you, Captain, resume that dream by the fire. I
have got a few more lines to write before my invisible friends leave me.

From that autumn night, 1830, to this winter night of 1872, no clue has
ever been discovered to the murderers of faithful old Clump. About
Christmas time of the same year Juno closed her earthly eyes in the old
Cape House--to open them again, I fervently believe, in heaven.

Mr Clare lives--a venerable clergyman in one of our great cities--his
head and heart yet labouring earnestly in the Great Cause he serves.