memory of it, five and forty years gone by. Safe in the
clear ice, still, unharmed, there lay--O God! not her Charles; not the
Charles of her own thought, who had lived through life with her and
shared her sixty years; not the old man she had borne thither in her
mind--but a boy, a boy of one and twenty lying asleep, a ghost from
another world coming to confront her from the distant past, immortal
in the immortality of the glacier. There was his quaint coat, of the
fashion of half a century before; his blue eyes open; his young, clear
brow; all the form of the past she had forgotten; and she his bride
stood there to welcome him, with her wrinkles, her bent figure, and
thin white hairs. She was living, he was dead; and she was two and
forty years older than he.

Then at last the long-kept tears came to her, and she bent her white
head in the snow. The old man came up with his pick, silently, and
began working in the ice. The woman lay weeping, and the boy with his
still, faint smile, lay looking at them, through the clear ice-veil,
from his open eyes.

I believe that the Professor found his bullet; I know not. I believe
that the scientific world rang with his name and the thesis that he
published on the glacier's motion, and the changeless temperature his
father's lost thermometer had shown. All this you may read. I know no
more.

But I know that in the English churchyard there are now two graves,
and a single stone, to Charles Knollys and Mary, his wife; and the boy
of one and twenty sleeps there with his bride of sixty-three: his
young frame with her old one, his yellow hair beside her white. And I
do not know that there is not some place, not here, where they are
still together, and he is twenty-one and she is still eighteen. I do
not know this; but I know that all the pamphlets of the German doctor
cannot tell me it is false.

Meantime the great Pasterzen glacier moves on, and the rocks with it;
and the mountain flings his shadow of the planets in its face.

A DINNER-PARTY.

WAS IT A SUCCESS?

BY JOHN EDDY.

"The work of feeding, you must understand,
Was but a fraction of the work in hand."

_Atlantic Monthly, November, 1872._

In the year of grace 1855 there resided at the fashionable end of one
of the largest of our Eastern cities, a person who will be called for
the purpose of this article Bernon Burchard. He is not a myth, but a
veritable person. For fifteen years he had been a pra