ust shroud what friends
remain, as it has shrouded what friends have gone,--and of that Great
Hope, beaming on your seared manhood dimly from the upper world!

Your wealth suffices for all the luxuries of life; there is no fear of
coming want; health beats strong in your veins; you have learned to hold
a place in the world with a man's strength, and a man's confidence. And
yet in the view of those sweet scenes which belonged to early days, when
neither strength, confidence, nor wealth were yours,--days never to come
again,--a shade of melancholy broods upon your spirit, and covers with
its veil all that fierce pride which your worldly wisdom has wrought.

You visit again with Frank the country homestead of his grandfather: he
is dead; but the old lady still lives; and blind Fanny, now drawing
toward womanhood, wears yet through her darkened life the same air of
placid content, and of sweet trustfulness in Heaven. The boys, whom you
astounded with your stories of books, are gone, building up now with
steady industry the queen cities of our new western land. The old
clergyman is gone from the desk, and from under his sounding board; he
sleeps beneath a brown stone slab in the churchyard. The stout deacon is
dead; his wig and his wickedness rest together. The tall chorister sings
yet; but they have now a bass-viol--handled by a new schoolmaster--in
place of his tuning-fork; and the years have sown feeble quavers in his
voice.

Once more you meet at the home of Nelly the blue-eyed Madge. The
sixpence is all forgotten; you cannot tell where your half of it is
gone. Yet she is beautiful, just budding into the full ripeness of
womanhood. Her eyes have a quiet, still joy, and hope beaming in them,
like angel's looks. Her motions have a native grace and freedom that no
culture can bestow. Her words have a gentle earnestness and honesty that
could never nurture guile.

You had thought after your gay experiences of the world to meet her with
a kind condescension, as an old friend of Nelly's. But there is that in
her eye which forbids all thought of condescension. There is that in her
air which tells of a high womanly dignity, which can only be met on
equal ground. Your pride is piqued. She has known--she must know your
history; but it does not tame her. There is no marked and submissive
appreciation of your gifts as a man of the world.

She meets your happiest compliments with a very easy indifference; she
receives your elega