ngs."

There lurked a troubled tone beneath the playfulness; she rose up
quickly, and began to talk to Mr. Gwynne.

They had a pleasant evening, all three together; for Mrs. Rothesay,
knowing that Harold was lonely--since his mother and Ailie had gone away
on a week's visit--prevailed upon him to stay. He read to them--Mrs.
Rothesay was fond of hearing him read; and to Olive the world's richest
music was in his deep, pathetic voice, more especially when reading, as
he did now, with great earnestness and emotion. The poem was not one of
his own choosing, but of Mrs. Rothesay's. She listened eagerly while he
read from Tennyson's "May Queen."

Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine,
In the early, early morning the summer sun will shine.
I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head on the long and pleasant grass.
Good night, good night! When I have said, good night for evermore,
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave is growing green:
She'll be a better child to you than I have ever been.

Here Harold paused; for, looking at Olive, he saw her tears falling
fast; but Mrs. Rothesay, generally so easily touched, was now quite
unmoved. On her face was a soft calm. She said to herself, musingly,

"How terrible for one's child to die first. But I shall never know that
pang. Go on, Mr. Gwynne."

He read--what words for him to read!--the concluding stanzas; and as he
did so, the movement of Mrs. Rothesay's lips seemed silently to follow
them.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done,
The voice which now is speaking may be beyond the sun,
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true,
And what is life that we should moan? Why make we such ado?
For ever and for ever all in a blessed home,
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come;
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

After he concluded, they were all three very silent. What thoughts were
in each heart? Then Mrs. Rothesay said,

"Now, my child, it is growing late. Read to us yourself, out of the
best Book of all." And when Olive was gone to fetch it, she added, "Mr.
Gwynne will pardon my not asking him to read the Bible, but a child's