avages generally, to such war-songs as the wild,
implacable "Marseillaise," and to the favorite tunes of low--spirited
Christian pessimists. That mournful "China," which one of our most
agreeable story-tellers has justly singled out as the cry of despair
itself, was often sung at The Poplars, sending such a sense of utter
misery through the house, that poor Kitty Fagan would cross herself,
and wring her hands, and think of funerals, and wonder who was going
to die,--for she fancied she heard the Banshee's warning in those most
dismal ululations.

On the first Saturday of June, a fortnight before her disappearance,
Myrtle strolled off by the river shore, along its lonely banks, and came
dome with her hands full of leaves and blossoms. Silence Withers looked
at them as if they were a kind of melancholy manifestation of frivolity
on the part of the wicked old earth. Not that she did not inhale their
faint fragrance with a certain pleasure, and feel their beauty as none
whose souls are not wholly shriveled and hardened can help doing, but
the world was, in her estimate, a vale of tears, and it was only by a
momentary forgetfulness that she could be moved to smile at anything.

Miss Cynthia, a sharper-edged woman, had formed the habit of crushing
everything for its moral, until it lost its sweetness and grew almost
odious, as flower-de-luces do when handled roughly. "There's a worm in
that leaf, Myrtle. He has rolled it all round him, and hidden himself
from sight; but there is a horrid worm in it, for all it is so young and
fresh. There is a worm in every young soul, Myrtle."

"But there is not a worm in every leaf, Miss Cynthia. Look," she said,
"all these are open, and you can see all over and under them, and there
is nothing there. Are there never any worms in the leaves after they get
old and yellow, Miss Cynthia?"

That was a pretty fair hit for a simple creature of fifteen, but perhaps
she was not so absolutely simple as one might have thought.

It was on the evening of this same day that they were sitting together.
The sweet season was opening, and it seemed as if the whispering of the
leaves, the voices of the birds, the softness of the air, the young life
stirring in everything, called on all creatures to join the universal
chorus of praise that was going up around them.

"What shall we sing this evening?" said Miss Silence.

"Give me one of the books, if you please, Cousin Silence," said Miss
Cynthia. "It i