eling, if it were a sentient and
intelligent thing;--of no use to the branch which holds it--freshness
and power gone--no reason for existence left--its work all done. Only I
never did any work, and was never of any particular use."

"O, you cannot mean that!" cried Lois, much troubled and perplexed.

"I keep going over to-day that little hymn you showed me, that was
found under the dead soldier's pillow. The words run in my head, and
wake echoes.

'I lay me down to sleep,
With little thought or care
Whether the waking find
Me here, or there.

'A bowing, burdened head--'"

But here the speaker broke off abruptly, and for a few minutes Lois
saw, or guessed, that she could not go on.

"Never mind that verse," she said, beginning again; "it is the next. Do
you remember?--

'My good right hand forgets
Its cunning now.
To march the weary march,
I know not how.

'I am not eager, bold,
Nor brave; all that is past.
I am ready not to do,
At last, at last!--'

I am too young to feel so," Mrs. Barclay went on, after a pause which
Lois did not break; "but that is how I feel to-day."

"I do not think one need--or ought--at any age," Lois said gently; but
her words were hardly regarded.

"Do you hear that wind?" said Mrs. Barclay. "It has been singing and
sighing in the chimney in that way all the afternoon."

"It is Christmas," said Lois. "Yes, it often sings so, and I like it. I
like it especially at Christmas time."

"It carries me back--years. It takes me to my old home, when I was a
child. I think it must have sighed so round the house then. It takes me
to a time when I was in my fresh young life and vigour--the unfolding
leaf--when life was careless and cloudless; and I have a kind of
home-sickness to-night for my father and mother.--Of the days since
that time, I dare not think."

Lois saw that rare tears had gathered in her friend's eyes, slowly and
few, as they come to people with whom hope is a lost friend; and her
heart was filled with a great pang of sympathy. Yet she did not know
how to speak. She recalled the verse of the soldier's hymn which Mrs.
Barclay had passed over--

"A bowing, burdened head,
That only asks to rest,
Unquestioning, upon
A loving breast."

She thought she knew what the grief was; but how to touch it? She sat
still and silent, and perhaps even so spoke her sympathy better than
any words could have