morning,
while taking my walk, I saw, growing about a rock, some little blue
flowers, such as I used to pick when a child. I had broken off a few,
and was stooping for more, when some one near said, "Good morning,
Captain Joseph!"

It was Mrs. Maylie, the minister's wife, going home from watching. After
a little talk, she told me, in her pleasant way, that I had two things
to do, of which, by the doing, I should make but one: I was to write a
story, and to show good reason for keeping myself all to myself.

"Mrs. Maylie," said I, "do I look like a person who has had a story? I
am a lonely old man,--a hard old man. A story should have warmth. Don't
you see I'm an icicle?"

"Not quite," said she. "I know of two warm spots. I see you every day
watching the children go past; and then, what have you there? Icicles
never cling to flowers!"

After she had gone, I began thinking what a beautiful story mine might
have been, if things had been different,--if I had been different. And
at last it occurred to me that a relation of some parts of it might be
useful reading for young men; also, that it might cause our whole class
to be more kindly looked upon.

Suppose it is not a pleasant story. Life is not all brightness. See how
the shadows chase each other across our path! To-day our friend weeps
with us; to-morrow we weep with our friend. The hearse is a carriage
which stops at every door.

No picture is without its shading. We have before us the happy
experiences of my two friends. By those smiling groups let there stand
one dark, solitary figure, pointing out the moral of the whole.

There is one thing, however, in the story of my neighbor Browne,
pleasant as it is, which reminds me of a habit of my own. I mean, his
liking to watch pretty faces. I do, when they belong to children.

This practice of mine, which I find has been noticed by my valued
friend, Mrs. Maylie, is partly owing to the memories of my own
childhood.

When the past was so suddenly recalled, on that stormy day,--as
mentioned by my friend Allen,--I felt as I have often felt upon the sea,
when, after hours of dull sailing, through mist and darkness, I have
looked back upon the lights of the town we were leaving.

My life began in brightness. And now, amid that brightness, appear
fresh, happy little faces, which haunt me more and more, as I become
isolated from the humanity about me, until at times it is those only
which are real, while living forms