cles of belief clinging to the
skirts of our time which are the bequests of the ages of ignorance that
God winked at. But for all that I would train a child in the nurture and
admonition of the Lord, according to the simplest and best creed I could
disentangle from those barbarisms, and I would in every way try to keep
up in young persons that standard of reverence for all sacred subjects
which may, without any violent transition, grow and ripen into the
devotion of later years. Believe me,

Very sincerely yours,

I have thought a good deal about this letter and the writer of it
lately. She seemed at first removed to a distance from all of us,
but here I find myself in somewhat near relations with her. What has
surprised me more than that, however, is to find that she is becoming so
much acquainted with the Register of Deeds. Of all persons in the world,
I should least have thought of him as like to be interested in her, and
still less, if possible, of her fancying him. I can only say they have
been in pretty close conversation several times of late, and, if I dared
to think it of so very calm and dignified a personage, I should say that
her color was a little heightened after one or more of these interviews.
No! that would be too absurd! But I begin to think nothing is absurd
in the matter of the relations of the two sexes; and if this high-bred
woman fancies the attentions of a piece of human machinery like this
elderly individual, it is none of my business.

I have been at work on some more of the Young Astronomer's lines. I
find less occasion for meddling with them as he grows more used to
versification. I think I could analyze the processes going on in his
mind, and the conflict of instincts which he cannot in the nature of
things understand. But it is as well to give the reader a chance to find
out for himself what is going on in the young man's heart and intellect.

WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS.

III

The snows that glittered on the disk of Mars
Have melted, and the planet's fiery orb
Rolls in the crimson summer of its year;
But what to me the summer or the snow
Of worlds that throb with life in forms unknown,
If life indeed be theirs; I heed not these.
My heart is simply human; all my care
For them whose dust is fashioned like mine own;
These ache with cold and hunger, live in pain,
And shake with fear of worlds more full of