love,
And the new year will take 'em away.
Old year, you must not go:
So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.
He frothed his bumpers to the brim:
A jollier year we shall not see;
But though his eyes are waxing dim,
And though his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.
Old year, you shall not die:
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die._

ALFRED TENNYSON.

X.

ST. AGNES' EVE.

_The Old Year--St. Agnes--Keats' Poem--The Circlet of Pearls--A
Cloud--The Promise--Mrs. Snarle continues her Knitting._

The Old Year had just gone by--the dear, sad Old Year! He died in the
blustering wind, out in the cold! He lay down in the shadows, moaned, and
died! Something has gone with thee, Old Year, which will never come again:
kind words, sweet smiles, warm lips--ah, no, they will never come again!
Hold them near your heart for love of us, Old Year! They came with you,
they went with you! _Kyrie eleyson!_

"I wish you could tarry with us," said Mortimer. "You were kind to us,
merry and sad with us." And he repeated the lines,

"Old year, you shall not die:
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die."

"To-night, Daisy, will be St. Agnes' Eve, and if I sell my prose sketch to
Filberty's Magazine, I'll be in a good humor to read you Keats' poem."

Since leaving Mr. Flint's employ, Mortimer had entirely supported himself
with his pen. His piquant paragraphs and touching verses over the signature
of "Il Penseroso," had attracted some attention; and he found but little
difficulty in disposing of his articles, at starving prices, it is true;
but he bore up, seeing a brighter time ahead. He had been so occupied in
writing short stories and essays, that his romance, which lacked but one
chapter of completion, was still unfinished.

Filberty's Magazine paid him so generously for the "prose article," that he
could afford to devote himself to a task which did not promise immediate
profit. He completed the novel at sundown that day; and after supper Daisy
reminded him of his promise to read Keats' "Eve of St. Agnes."

"I sometimes think," said Mortimer, as good Mrs. Snarle seated herself in a
low rocking-