gth spoke forth the poet. It was a work which though as yet
but half completed, came from a strong hand; not that shadow trembling
on unsteady waters, which is but the pale reflex and imitation of
some bright mind, sphered out of reach and afar, but an original
substance,--a life, a thing of the Creative Faculty,--breathing
back already the breath it had received. This work had paused during
Leonard's residence with Mr. Avenel, or had only now and then, in
stealth, and at night, received a rare touch. Now, as with a fresh eye
he reperused it, and with that strange, innocent admiration, not of
self--for a man's work is not, alas! himself,--it is the beautified
and idealized essence, extracted he knows not how from his own human
elements of clay; admiration known but to poets,--their purest delight,
often their sole reward. And then with a warmer and more earthly beat of
his full heart, he rushed in fancy to the Great City, where all rivers
of fame meet, but not to be merged and lost, sallying forth again,
individualized and separate, to flow through that one vast Thought of
God which we call THE WORLD.

He put up his papers; and opened his window, as was his ordinary custom,
before he retired to rest,--for he had many odd habits; and he loved to
look out into the night when he prayed. His soul seemed to escape from
the body--to mount on the air, to gain more rapid access to the far
Throne in the Infinite--when his breath went forth among the winds, and
his eyes rested fixed on the stars of heaven.

So the boy prayed silently; and after his prayer he was about,
lingeringly, to close the lattice, when he heard distinctly sobs close
at hand. He paused, and held his breath, then looked gently out; the
casement next his own was also open. Someone was also at watch by that
casement,--perhaps also praying. He listened yet more intently, and
caught, soft and low, the words, "Father, Father, do you hear me now?"

CHAPTER VI.

Leonard opened his door and stole towards that of the room adjoining;
for his first natural impulse had been to enter and console. But when
his touch was on the handle, he drew back. Child though the mourner was,
her sorrows were rendered yet more sacred from intrusion by her sex.
Something, he knew not what, in his young ignorance, withheld him
from the threshold. To have crossed it then would have seemed to him
profanation. So he returned, and for hours yet he occasionally heard the
sobs, till th