its time; and dust
and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.

Autumn days are shining, and on the sea-beach there are often a young
lady, and a white-haired gentleman. With them, or near them, are two
children: boy and girl. And an old dog is generally in their company.

The white-haired gentleman walks with the little boy, talks with him,
helps him in his play, attends upon him, watches him as if he were the
object of his life. If he be thoughtful, the white-haired gentleman is
thoughtful too; and sometimes when the child is sitting by his side, and
looks up in his face, asking him questions, he takes the tiny hand in
his, and holding it, forgets to answer. Then the child says:

'What, grandpa! Am I so like my poor little Uncle again?'

'Yes, Paul. But he was weak, and you are very strong.'

'Oh yes, I am very strong.'

'And he lay on a little bed beside the sea, and you can run about.'

And so they range away again, busily, for the white-haired gentleman
likes best to see the child free and stirring; and as they go about
together, the story of the bond between them goes about, and follows
them.

But no one, except Florence, knows the measure of the white-haired
gentleman's affection for the girl. That story never goes about. The
child herself almost wonders at a certain secrecy he keeps in it. He
hoards her in his heart. He cannot bear to see a cloud upon her face.
He cannot bear to see her sit apart. He fancies that she feels a slight,
when there is none. He steals away to look at her, in her sleep. It
pleases him to have her come, and wake him in the morning. He is fondest
of her and most loving to her, when there is no creature by. The child
says then, sometimes:

'Dear grandpapa, why do you cry when you kiss me?'

He only answers, 'Little Florence! little Florence!' and smooths away
the curls that shade her earnest eyes.

The voices in the waves speak low to him of Florence, day and
night--plainest when he, his blooming daughter, and her husband, beside
them in the evening, or sit at an open window, listening to their roar.
They speak to him of Florence and his altered heart; of Florence and
their ceaseless murmuring to her of the love, eternal and illimitable,
extending still, beyond the sea, beyond the sky, to the invisible
country far away.

Never from the mighty sea may voices rise too late, to come between us
and the unseen region on the other shore! Better, far better, that
they whispered of that re