for such employment was no
dishonor to the matrons of those days. With these for the leading
figures, I remember how seven brothers and sisters were grouped
around, and how the old house dog had a place in the corner, and how
lovingly the cat nestled between his feet. Cherished memories are
these pleasant visions and they come to me often, vivid as realities.
But the dream vanishes, the vision fades away, and I think of the six
pale, still faces as I saw them last, and of the names that are
chiseled upon the cold marble that stands through the sunny
spring-time, the heat of summer, the autumnal days, and the storms and
tempests of winter, over the graves of the dead."

CHAPTER XXVI.

A SURPRISE--A SERENADE--A VISIT FROM STRANGERS--AN
INVITATION TO BREAKFAST--A FASHIONABLE HOUR AND A
BOUNTIFUL BILL OF FARE.

The evening was calm, and the lake slept in stirless beauty before us.
The shadows of the mountains reached far out from the shore, lieing
like a dark mantle upon the surface of the waters, above and beneath
which the stars twinkled and glowed like the bright eyes of seraphs
looking down from the arches above, and up from the depths below. The
moon in her brightness sailed majestically up into the sky, throwing
her silver light across the bosom of the lake; millions of fireflies
flashed their tiny torches along the reedy shore; the solemn voices of
the night birds came from out the forest; the call of the raccoon and
the answer, the hooting of the owl, and the low murmur of the leaves,
stirred by the light breeze that moved lazily among the tree-tops, old
familiar music to us, were heard. This latter sound is always heard,
even in the stillest and calmest nights. There may be no ripple upon
the water; it may be moveless and smooth as a mirror, no breath of air
may sweep across its surface, and yet in the old forest among the
tree-tops, there is always that low ceaseless murmur, a soft
whispering as if the spirits of the woods were holding, in hushed
voices, communion together. We had retired for the night under the
cover of our tents. My companion had sunk into slumber, and I was just
in that dreamy state, half sleeping and half awake, which constitutes
the very paradise of repose, when there came drifting across the lake
the faint and far off strains of music, which, to my seeming, exceeded
in sweetness anything I had ever heard. They came so soft and
melodious, floating so gently over the water, and dy