swell.
From mine almost deserted shell,
In mournful accents yet to tell
That slumbers not its minstrelsy.

"There is an hour of deep repose,
That yet upon my heart shall close,
When all that nature dreads and knows
Shall burst upon me wondrously;
Oh, may I then awake, forever,
My harp to rapture's high endeavor;
And, as from earth's vain scene I sever,
Be lost in Immortality."

Vesta ceased a few minutes, and, her visitor saying nothing, she
remarked, with emotion.

"Those lines were written at my grandfather's house, in Accomac County,
by a young clergyman from New York, who was grandfather's rector, Rev.
James Eastburn. He was only twenty-two years old when he died, at sea,
of consumption. His is the only poetry I have ever heard of, Mr.
Milburn, written in our beautiful old country here."

"I wondered if I should ever hear you sing for me," spoke Milburn, after
hesitation. "Now it is realized, I feel sceptical about it. You are
there, Miss Custis, are you not?"

Vesta was puzzled. Under other circumstances she would have been amused,
since her humor could flow freely as her music. It faintly seemed to her
that the little odd man might be cracked in the head.

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Milburn. If it were a dream, I should have no
expression all this day but song. I think I never felt so sad to sing as
just now. Father is ill. Mamma is ill. I have become the business agent
of the family, and have heard within this hour that papa is deeply
involved. You are his creditor, are you not?"

Meshach Milburn bowed.

"What is the sum of papa's notes and mortgages? Is it more than he can
pay by the sacrifice of everything?"

"Yes. He has nothing to sell at forced sale which will bring anything,
but the household servants here; these maids in the family are
marketable immediately. You would not like to sell them?"

"Sell Virgie! She was brought up with me; what right have I to sell her
any more than she has to sell me?"

"None," said Milburn, bluntly, "but there is law for it."

"To sell Roxy, too, and old Aunt Hominy, and the young children! how
could I ever pray again if they were sold? Oh! Mr. Milburn, where was
your heart, to let papa waste his plentiful substance in such a
hopeless experiment? If my singing in the church has given you
happiness, why could it not move you to mercy? Think of the despair of
this family, my father's helpless generosity, my mother's marriage
settlement gon