though," resumed Bulchester, "I know you well
enough. But, according to you, there's the insuperable obstacle."

Edmonson laughed contemptuously.

"Insuperable?" he answered. "Stray shots have taken off more superfluous
kings and men than the world knows of. And just now, with this prospect
of war before the country, something is sure to happen,--to happen,
Bulchester; luck has a passion for me, and after all her caprices, she
is coming to--."

Elizabeth lost the rest of the sentence. She was already on her way home
by the other road, treading softly while on the beach, lest the pebbles
should betray her footsteps. When she was well out of hearing she
stopped a moment to take breath. She stood looking out upon the expanse
of ocean before her as if her sight could reach to the unknown world
beyond it.

"Last night," she said, "I thought the worst had come to me. I was
wrong."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

[Footnote 2: Copyright, 1884, by Frances C. Sparhawk.]

* * * * *

MEMORY'S PICTURES.

By Charles Carleton Coffin, 1846.

It is a pleasure to throw back the door,
And view the relics of departed hours;
To brush the cobwebs from the ancient lore,
And turn again the book of withered flowers.
Within the dusty chambers of the past,
Old pictures hang upon the crumbling walls;
Dim shadowy forms are in the twilight cast,
And many a dance is whirling through the halls.
There are bright fires blazing on the hearth,
The merry shout falls on the ear again;
And little footsteps patter down the path,
Just like the coming of the summer rain.
I hear the music of the rippling rill,
The dews of morn are sprinkled on my cheek;
While down the valley and upon the hill
The laughing echoes play their hide-and-seek.
I roam the meadow where the violets grow,
I watch the shadows o'er the mountain creep;
I bathe my feet where sparkling fountains flow,
Or bow my head on moss-grown rocks to sleep.
I hear the bell ring out the passing hour,
I hear its music o 'er the valleys flung;
O, what a preacher is that time-worn tower,
Reading great sermons with its iron tongue!
The old church clock, forever swinging slow,
With moving hands at morning and at even,
Points to the sleepers in the yard below,
Then lifts them upward to the distant heaven.
How will such memories o' er the spirit stray,
Of ho