ead her dusty highways
under the spell of a bygone June, and shall sit within the portals of an
old home whose floors are now pressed by an alien foot. Now, ere I have
scarce begun, the recollections come upon me like a flood, and this page
becomes blurred to my failing sight. O Memory! Memory! and the visions
of thine!

THE LOVE STORY _of_ ABNER STONE

I

It is a long path which stretches from forty-five to seventy. A path
easy enough to make, for each day's journey through life is a part of
it, but very difficult to retrace. When we turn at that advanced
mile-stone and look back, things seem misty. For there is many a twist
and angle in the highway of a life, and often the things which we would
forget stand out the clearest. But I would not drive from my brain this
quiet afternoon the visions which enfold it,--the blessed recollections
of over a score of years ago. For the sweet voice which speaks in my
ear as I write I have never ceased to hear; the face which the mirror of
my mind ever reflects before my eyes I have looked upon with
never-tiring eagerness, and the tender hand which I can imagine betimes
creeping into my own, is the chiefest blessing of a life nearly spent.

There is no haunting memory of past misdeeds to shadow the quiet rest of
my last days. As I bid my mind go back over the path which my feet have
trod, no ghost uprises to confront it; no voice cries out for
retribution or justice; not even does a dumb animal whine at a blow
inflicted, nor a worm which my foot has wantonly pressed, appear. I
would show forth no self-praise in this, but rather a devout
thankfulness unto the Creator who made me as I am, with a heart of mercy
for all living things, and a reverent love for all His wonderful works.
The beauty of tree, and flowering plant, and lowly creeper abides with
me as an everlasting joy, and the song of the humblest singer the forest
shelters finds a response in my heart. Without my window now, as I sit
down to make a history of part of my life, a brown-coated English
sparrow is chattering in a strange jargon to his mate on the limb of an
Early Harvest apple tree, and I pause a moment to listen to his shrill
little voice, and to watch the black patch under his throat puff up and
down.

It is the fall of the year, and the afternoon is gray. At times an arrow
of sunlight breaks through the shields of clouds, and kisses the brown
earth with a quivering spot of light. Across the s