hose I have just read."

But my soul, still living,
Speaks its words of comfort sweet,
Grandest promise giving
That again we'll meet.

"I should think," continued Quincy, "that those words were particularly
well suited to be sung at a funeral. I shall have to ask my friend
Bradley to have his quartette learn them, so as to be ready when I need
them."

"Oh! Mr. Sawyer," cried Alice, with a strong tone of reproof in her
voice, "how can you speak so lightly of death?"

"Pardon me," replied Quincy, "if I have unintentionally wounded your
feelings, but after all life is only precious to those who have
something to live for."

"But you certainly," said Alice, "can see something in life worth living
for."

"Yes," assented Quincy, "I can see it, but I am not satisfied in my own
mind that I shall ever be able to possess it."

"Oh, you must work and wait and hope!" cried Alice.

"I shall be happy to," he said, "if you will be kind and say an
encouraging word to me, so that I may not grow weary of the battle of
life."

"I should be pleased to help you all I can," she said sweetly.

"I shall need your help," Quincy remarked gravely, and then with a quick
change in tone he said playfully, "I think it is about time for the
judge to get back upon the bench."

"This," said Alice, as she passed him a manuscript enclosed in a cover,
"is my capital offence. If I escape punishment for my other
misdemeanors, I know I shall not when you have read this." And she
handed him the paper.

Quincy opened it and read, The Lord of the Sea, a Cantata.

CHARACTERS.

Canute, the Great, King of England and Denmark.
A Courtier.
An Irish Harper.
Queen Emma, the "Flower of Normandy."
Courtiers, Monks, and Gleemen.

PLACE.

Part I.--The palace of the king.
Part II.--The seashore at Southampton.
Time--About A.D. 1030.

As he proceeded with the reading he became greatly interested in it. He
had a fine voice and had taken a prize for oratory at Harvard.

When he finished he turned to Alice and said, "And you wrote that?"

"Certainly," said she. "Can you forgive me?"

Quincy said seriously, "Miss Pettengill, that is a fine poem; it is
grand when read, but it would be grander still if set to music. I can
imagine," Quincy continued, "how those choruses would sound if sung by
the Handel and Haydn Society, backed up by a full orchestra and the big
organ." And he sang, to an extemporized melody of his own, the words: