they come not to these, God help them! for they are the surest pledges
of our immortality; and to the young and innocent--ay, and even to the
young and guilty--they do sometimes come--these hours of absorbing
limitless enjoyment; these glimpses of dimly remembered paradise; these
odours snatched from a primal Eden, from a golden age when justice still
lived upon the earth, and crime was as yet unknown. There are such
hours, and for this English family this hour was one of them.

Thrice happy Walter! and almost like a dream of happiness these holidays
at home--and at _such_ a home--flew by. Every day and hour was a change
from pleasure to pleasure; among the hills, in the boat on the sunlit
lake, plunging for his cool morning swim in the fresh waters,
cricketing, riding, fishing, walking with his father and mother and
brothers, sitting and talking at the cool nightfall in the moonlit
garden, Walter was as happy as the day was long. And when Power came to
spend a week with them, again charming every one whom he saw with his
cheerful unselfishness and engaging manners, and himself charmed beyond
expression with all he saw at Walter's home, they agreed that nothing
was wanting to make their happiness "an entire and perfect chrysolite."

Power, we have seen, was something of a young poet, and on the day he
left Semlyn with Walter, who was to accompany him home, he sat a long
time silent in the train, and then tore out a leaf of his pocket-book,
on which he had scribbled the following lines on Semlyn Lake.

If earthly homes can shine so fair
With sky and wave so purely blue,
Beneath the balmy purple air,
If hills can don so rich a hue;

If fancy fails to paint a scene
In Eden's soft and floral glades,
Where azure clear and golden green
More sweetly blend with silver shades;

If marked and flecked with sinful stains,
Earth hath not lost her power to bless,
But still, beneath the cloud, remains
So steeped in perfect loveliness;

Merged, as we are, in doubt and fear,
Yet, when we yearn for realms of bliss,
We scarce can dream, while lingering here,
Of any fairer heaven than this.

Poor verses, and showing too delicate a sensibility to be healthy in any
boy; yet dear to me and dear to Walter for Power's sake, and because
they show the strange charm which Semlyn has for those who have the gift
of appreciating those natural treasures with which earth plentifully
fills her lap.

C