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The song and the silence in the heart,

       That in part are prophecies, and in part

       Are longings wild and vain.

       And the voice of that fitful song

       Sings on, and is never still:

       'A boy's will is the wind's will,

       And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

      "There are things of which I may not speak;

       There are dreams that cannot die;

       There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

       And bring a pallor into the cheek,

       And a mist before the eye.

       And the words of that fatal song

       Come over me like a chill:

       'A boy's will is the wind's will,

       And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

      "Strange to me now are the forms I meet

       When I visit the dear old town;

       But the native air is pure and sweet,

       And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,

       As they balance up and down,

       Are singing the beautiful song,

       Are sighing and whispering still:

       'A boy's will is the wind's will,

       And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

      "And Deering's woods are fresh and fair,

       And with joy that is almost pain

       My heart goes back to wander there,

       And among the dreams of the days that were

       I find my lost youth again.

       And the music of that old song

       Throbs in my memory still:

       'A boy's will is the wind's will,

       And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"

      Those are some of its verses, and what "Deering" is to Longfellow, "Helstonleigh" is to me.

      The Birmingham stage-coach came into Helstonleigh one summer's night, and stopped at its destination, the Star-and-Garter Hotel, bringing with it some London passengers. The direct line of rail to Helstonleigh from London was not then opened; and this may serve to tell you how long it is ago. A lady and a little girl stepped from the inside of the coach, and a gentleman and three boys got down from the outside. The latter were soaking. Almost immediately after leaving Birmingham, to which place the rail had conveyed them, the rain had commenced to pour in torrents, and those outside received its full benefit. The coach was crammed, inside and out, but with the other passengers we have nothing to do. We have with these; they were the Halliburtons.

      For the town which Mr. Halliburton had been desirous to remove to, the one in which his cousin, Mrs. Dare, resided, was no other than Helstonleigh.

      Mrs. Halliburton drew a long face when she set eyes on her husband's condition. "Edgar! you must be wet through and through!"

      "Yes, I am. There was no help for it."

      "You should have come inside when I wanted you to do so," she cried, in a voice of distress. "You should indeed."

      "And have suffered you to take my place outside? Nonsense, Jane!"

      Jane looked at the hotel. "We had better remain here for the night. What do you think?"

      "Yes, I think so," he replied. "It is too wet to go about looking after anything that might be less expensive. Inquire if we can have rooms, Jane, whilst I see after the luggage."

      Mrs. Halliburton went in, leading Janey, and was confronted by the barmaid, a smart young woman in a smart cap. "Can we sleep here to-night?" she inquired.

      "Yes, certainly. How many beds?"

      "I will go up with you and see," said Mrs. Halliburton. "Be so kind as not to put us in your more expensive rooms," she added, in a lower tone.

      The barmaid looked at her from top to toe, as it is much in the habit of barmaids to do when such a request is preferred. She saw a lady in a black silk dress, a cashmere shawl, and a plain straw bonnet, trimmed with white. Simple as the attire was, quiet as was the demeanour, there was that about Mrs. Halliburton, in her voice, her accent, her bearing altogether, which proclaimed her the gentlewoman; and the barmaid condescended to be civil.

      "I have nothing to do with the rooms," she said; "I'll call the chambermaid. My goodness! You had better get those wet things off, sir, unless you want to be laid up with cold."

      The words were uttered in surprise, as her eyes encountered Mr. Halliburton. He looked taller, and thinner, and handsomer than ever; but he had a hollow cough now, and his cheek was hectic, and he was certainly wet through.

      The chambermaid allotted them rooms. Mr. Halliburton, after rubbing himself dry with towels, got into a warmed bed, and had warm drink supplied to him. Jane, after unpacking what would be wanted for the night, returned to the sitting-room, to which her children had been shown. A good-natured maid, seeing the boys' clothes were damp, had lighted a fire, and they were kneeling round it, having been provided with bread and butter and milk. Intelligent, truthful, good-looking boys they were, with clear skins and bright, honest eyes, and open countenances. Janey had fallen asleep on a chair, her flaxen curls making her a pillow on its elbow. The boys crowded to one side of the fireplace when their mother came in, leaving the larger space for her; and William rose and gave her a chair. Mrs. Halliburton sat down, having laid on the table a Book of Common Prayer, which she had brought in her hand.

      "Mamma, I hope papa will not be ill!"

      "Oh, William, I fear it. Such a terrible wetting! And to be so long in it! How is it that he was so much worse than you are?"

      "Because he sat at the end, and the gentleman next him did not hold the umbrella over him at all. When it came on to rain, some of the passengers had umbrellas and some had not, so they were divided for the best. We three had one between us, and we were wedged in between two fat old men, who helped to keep us dry. What a pity there was not a place for papa inside!"

      "Yes; or if he would only have taken mine!" cried Mrs. Halliburton. "A wetting would not have hurt me, as it may hurt him. What place did they call that, William, where I got out to ask him to change?"

      "Bromsgrove Lickey. Mamma, you have had no tea!"

      "I do not care for any," she sighed. Hers was a hopeful nature; but something within her, this evening, seemed to whisper of trial for the future. She turned to the table, where stood the remains of the children's meal, cut a piece of bread from the loaf, and slowly spread it with butter. Then she poured out a little milk.

      "Dear mamma, do have some tea!" cried William; "that's nothing but our milk and water."

      She shook her head and took the milk. Tea would only be an additional expense, and she was too completely dispirited to care what she drank.

      "I will read now," she said, taking up the Prayer-book. "And afterwards, I think, you had better say your prayers here, near the fire, as you have been so wet."

      She chose a short psalm, and read it aloud. Then the children knelt down, each at a separate chair, to say their prayers in silence. Not as children's prayers are sometimes hurried over, knelt they; but with lowly reverence, their heads bowed, their young hearts lifted, never doubting but they were heard by God. They had been trained in a good school.

      Did you ever have a sale of old things? Goods and chattels which may have served your purpose and looked well in their places, seem so old when they come to be exhibited that you feel half-ashamed of them? And as to the sum they realise—you will not have much trouble in hoarding it. Had Mr. Halliburton known the small sum that would be the result of his sale; had Jane dreamt that they would go for an "old song," they had never consented to part with

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