he snow--we succeeded in getting him to the house, where, in a short
time, he so far recovered as to be able to speak. Julia, who had been
my prompt and efficient assistant in his restoration, retired into the
shadow of the room as soon as he began to rouse himself and look about
him. He asked where he was and who was with me, saying that his head
was so confused that he thought he saw Julia Atkins by the bedside.
'You were not mistaken,' said I; 'Julia is here, and you owe your life
to her.' He started up and gazed round the room. I beckoned Julia to
the bedside; and I shall never forget the grateful earnestness with
which he grasped her hand and called upon God to bless her. Some folks
think me a tough-hearted old fellow, and so I am; but that scene was
more than I could bear without shedding tears.

"Robert told us that his vessel had been thrown upon the beach a mile or
two below, and that he feared all the crew had perished save himself.
Assured of his safety, I went out once more, in the faint hope of
hearing the voice of some survivor of the disaster; but I listened only
to the heavy thunder of the surf rolling along the horizon of the east.
The storm had in a great measure ceased; the gray light of dawn was just
visible; and I was gratified to see two of the nearest neighbors
approaching the house. On being informed of the wreck they immediately
started for the beach, where several dead bodies, half buried in snow,
confirmed the fears of the solitary survivor.

"The result of all this you can easily conjecture. Robert Barnet
abandoned the sea, and, with the aid of some of his friends, purchased
the farm where he now lives, and the anniversary of his shipwreck found
him the husband of Julia. I can assure you I have had every reason to
congratulate myself on my share in the match-making. Nobody ventured to
find fault with it except two or three sour old busybodies, who, as
Elder Staples well says, 'would have cursed her whom Christ had
forgiven, and spurned the weeping Magdalen from the feet of her Lord.'"

CHAPTER IV. BY THE SPRING.

IT was one of the very brightest and breeziest of summer mornings that
the Doctor and myself walked homeward from the town poor-house, where
he had always one or more patients, and where his coming was always
welcomed by the poor, diseased, and age-stricken inmates. Dark,
miserable faces of lonely and unreverenced age, written over with the
grim records of sorrow a