tumn was similar to that I now beheld--in the
chrome-tinted maples, the silvery-toned beeches and scarlet "sumachs" of
the western forests.

And in the frozen winter, of almost Arctic severity and continuance,
home was brought even nearer to me--in connection with all the cherished
memories of that kindly-tempered season. I thought of the old firesides
where I had been a welcome guest in times past; the old Christmas
festivities, the old Christmas cheer, the--bah! What good will it do to
you and I thus to trace over the aching foot-prints of recollection?

I used to go down to the mouth of the Hudson river, that I might watch
the red-funnelled Cunard steamers start on their passage to England--
sending my heart after them in impotent cravings: I used, I remember, to
mark off the days as they passed, in the little almanack of my pocket-
book--scoring them out, just as Robinson Crusoe was in the habit of
notching his post for the same purpose:--I used to fret and fret, in
fact, eating my soul away in vain repinings and foolish longings!

And, still, my fortunes did not brighten--notwithstanding that I hunted
in every direction for work, and tried to wean my mind from painful
associations by hopeful anticipations of "something turning up" on the
morrow. The morrow came, sure enough; but no good luck:--my fortunes
got darker and darker, as time went on; while my home yearnings grew
stronger.

I would have borne my troubles much better, I'm certain, if I could only
have heard from my darling.

There was no hope of that, however, as you know. Even if Min would have
consented to such a thing, which I knew she would not have done, I
should never have dreamt of asking her to write to me in opposition to
her mother's wishes. It is true that I had dear little Miss
Pimpernell's letters; but what could _they_ be in comparison with
letters from Min?--although, of course, the kind old lady would tell me
all about her, and how she looked, and what she said, in order to
encourage me?

It was a hard fight, a bitter struggle--that first year I passed in
America; and, my memory will bear the scars of the combat, I believe,
until my dying day.

Still, time brought relief; and, opportunity, success--so the world
wags.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

"LIFE!"

I hold it truth with him who sings,
On one clear harp, in divers tones,
That men may rise, on stepping stones
Of their dead lives, to higher things!

However grievous