well; what was it?"--and answered promptly, "It was Elizabeth Purcill's
journal."

It was the first time Eleanor had heard the name for years. She showed
no signs of emotion. "I should like to see it," said she; "give it to
me."

Bradford had been brought up in such habits of obedience, that he never
thought of disputing his aunt's command. He drew the journal from his
pocket and handed it to her without speaking.

"You have read it?" said she, fixing her keen eyes upon him.

"Yes."

She drew the lamp towards her and opened the book. The shade on the
lamp kept the light from her face; but had Bradford seen it, it would
have told him no more of the thoughts beneath it than the stone in the
churchyard had told him of Elizabeth Purcill.

He watched her turning over the leaves slowly, and thought that her
hand trembled a little at the close. Those pages must have stirred many
a memory and many a grief, as the wind shakes the bare boughs of the
trees, though blossom, fruit, and leaves have long since fallen.

She closed the book, and spoke at last:--"I think, Bradford, this book
belongs rightfully but to one person,--Mr. Thornton Lee. Shall I send
it to him?"

Eleanor's question was uttered in a tone that seemed to admit of but
one reply. Bradford assented. If he might not keep the journal himself,
he would rather Thornton Lee should have it than his aunt.

The next day, Thornton Lee received a small packet, accompanied by a
note which ran thus:--

"To do justice to the memory of one who, years ago, came between us, I
send you this little book, found in the old well yesterday. From it you
will learn how she came by her death, and--how much she loved you.
ELEANOR PURCILL."

As Thornton Lee read the journal, his children climbed his knee and
twined his gray curls around their fingers, and his wife came and
leaned sportively over his shoulder and looked at the yellow leaves.

In some lives, as in some years, there is an after-summer; but in
others, the hoar-frosts are succeeded by the winter snow.

THE DEAD HOUSE.

Here once my step was quickened,
Here beckoned the opening door,
And welcome thrilled from the threshold
To the foot it had felt before.

A glow came forth to meet me
From the flame that laughed in the grate,
And shadows a-dance on the ceiling
Danced blither with mine for a mate.

"I claim you, old friend," yawned the arm-chair,--
"This corner, you know, is yo