of the broad reach of water that lay between me and that old forest home, and beating off the daisy heads with my stick, I heard the tramp of horses coming up one of the forest avenues. The sound was unusual; for the family, I had been told, was still in town, and no right of way lay through the park. There they were, however;-I was sure it must be the family, from the careless way in which they sauntered up.

First there was a noble hound that came bounding toward me, gazed a moment, and turned to watch the approach of the little cavalcade. Next was an elderly gentleman mounted upon a spirited hunter, attended by a boy of some dozen years, who managed his pony with a grace that is a part of the English boy's education. Then followed two older lads, and a traveling phaeton in which sat a couple of elderly ladies. But what most drew my attention was a girlish figure that rode beyond the carriage upon a sleek-limbed gray. There was something in the easy grace of her attitude and the rich glow that lit up her faceheightened, as it was, by the little black riding-cap relieved with a single flowing plume-that kept my eye. It was strange, but I thought that I had seen such a figure before, and such a face, and such an eye; and as I made the ordinary salutation of a stranger, and caught her smile, I could have sworn that it was she-my fair companion of the ocean. The truth flashed upon me in a moment. She was to visit, she had told me, a friend in the south of England;—and this was the friend's home; and one of the ladies in the carriage was her mother, and one of the lads the school-boy brother who had teased her on the sea.

I recall now perfectly her frank manner as she ungloved her hand to bid me welcome. I strolled beside them to the steps. Old Devon had suddenly

renewed its beauties for me. I had much to tell her of the little outlying nooks which my wayward feet had led me to; and she-as much to ask. My stay with the bland old farmer lengthened; and two days' hospitalities at the Park ran over into three, and four. There was hard galloping down those avenues; and new strolls, not at all lonely, under the sturdy oaks. The long summer twilight of England used to find a very happy fellow lingering on the garden terrace, looking now at the rookery, where the belated birds quarreled for a resting-place, and now down the long forest vista, gray with distance, and closed with the white spire of Modbury church.

English country life gains fast upon one-very fast; and it is not so easy as in the drawing-room of Charing Cross, to say-adieu. But it is saidvery sadly said; for God only knows how long it is to last. And as I rode slowly down toward the lodge after my leave-taking, I turned back again, and again, and again. I thought I saw her standing still upon the terrace, though it was almost dark! and I thought-it could hardly have been an illusion-that I saw something white waving from her hand.

Her name as if I could forget it-was Caroline; her mother called her Carry. I wondered how it would seem for me to call her "Carry." I tried it: it sounded well. I tried it over and over, until I came too near the lodge. There I threw a halfcrown to the woman who opened the gate for me. She curtsied low, and said, "God bless you, sir !"

I liked her for it; I would have given a guinea for it; and that night-whether it was the old woman's benediction, or the waving scarf upon the terrace, I do not know, but-there was a charm upon my thought and my hope, as if an angel had been near me.

It passed away, though in my dreams; for I dreamed that I saw the sweet face of Bella in an English park, and that she wore a black velvetriding-cap with a plume; and I came up to her and murmured, very tenderly, I thought-" Carry, dear Carry!" and she started, looked sadly at me, and turned away. I ran after her to kiss her as I did when she sat upon by mother's lap, on the day when she came near drowning. I longed to tell her, as I did then, I do love you. But she turned her tearful face upon me, I dreamed; and then-I saw no more.

THOMAS MOORE

THOMAS MOORE, one of the most famous Irish poets, was born at Dublin in 1779; died at Sloperton, Wiltshire, England, in 1852. He studied at the University of his native city, and later prepared for the bar at the Middle Temple, in London. His "Odes to Anacreon attracted attention, as did "The Poetical Works of Thomas Little." He traveled in the United States and Canada, and found here subjects for some of his best work. After his return his writing covered a wide field and political pamphlets, poems, a novel or two, and three good biographies came in turn from his versatile pen. His "Irish Melodies" had given him his niche in the hearts of the people of many lands, and are honored in many a place where other writers and poets are comparatively unknown. Possessing a most melodious rythm, they almost sing themselves.

GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE

where glory waits thee;

G But while fame elates thee,

Oh still remember me!
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,

Oh then remember me!
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee
Sweeter far may be;

But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,

Oh then remember me!

When at eve thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,
Oh then remember me!
Think, when home returning,
Bright we've seen it burning,
Oh thus remember me!
Oft as summer closes,
When thine eye reposes
On its lingering roses,

Once so loved by thee,
Think of her who wove them,
Her who made thee love them-
Oh then remember me!

When around thee dying
Autumn leaves are lying,
Oh then remember me!
And at night when gazing
On the gay hearth blazing,
Oh still remember me!
Then should music, stealing
All the soul of feeling,
To thy heart appealing,

Draw one tear from thee;
Then let memory bring thee
Strains I used to sing thee—
Oh then remember me!

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT

night,

OFT, in the stiny night has bound me,

Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me;

The smiles, the tears,
Of boyhood's years,