s on the
back, that we may be able to identify them."

"No," said she, "we must guess as best we can. First, who is that?"
pointing to one of the figures.

"That must be Mrs. Hyde, for she is taller than the others," suggested
Grandma Fellows.

"By the same token, that must be Mrs. Tyrrell, for she is shorter," said
Jessie; "though, but for that, I don't see how we could have told them
apart."

"How oddly they did dress in those days!" said Mary.

"Who can that be?" asked Frank, pointing to the finest-looking of the
three young men. "If that is one of us, there was more choice in our
looks than there is now,--eh, Townsley?"

"No doubt," said George, "fifty years ago somebody's eye scanned those
features with a very keen sense of proprietorship. What a queer feeling
it would have given those young things to have anticipated that we
should ever puzzle over their identities in this way!"

They finally agreed on the identity of Jessie, Nellie, and Frank, and
of George also, on his assuring them that he was once of slender figure.
This left two figures which nobody could recognize, though Jessie
insisted that the gentleman was Henry, and Mary thought the other young
lady was a Miss Fellows, a girl of the village, who, she explained, had
died young many, many years ago.

"Don't you remember her?" she asked them, and her voice trembled with
a half-genuine sort of self-pity, as if, for a moment, she imagined
herself her own ghost.

"I recall her well," said Frank; "tall, grave, sweet, I remember she
used to realize to me the abstraction of moral beauty when we were
studying Paley together."

"I don't know when I have thought so much of those days as since I
received cards for your golden wedding, Judge," said Nellie to Henry,
soon after. "How many of those who were present at your wedding will be
present at your golden wedding, do you suppose?"

"Not more than two or three," replied Henry, "and yet the whole village
was at the wedding."

"Thank God," he said a moment after, "that our friends scatter before
they die. Otherwise old people like us would do nothing but attend
funerals during the last half of our lives. Parting is sad, but I prefer
to part from my friends while they are yet alive, that I may feel it
less when they die. One must manage his feelings or they will get the
better of him."

"It is a singular sensation," said George, "to outlive one's generation.
One has at times a guilty sense of having