ters on the white marble. There is plenty of
room for other inscriptions underneath."

"William Farren came to look after your flowers this morning. He was
afraid, now you cannot tend them yourself, they would be neglected. He
has taken two of your favourite plants home to nurse for you."

"If I were to make a will, I would leave William all my plants; Shirley
my trinkets--except one, which must not be taken off my neck; and you,
ma'am, my books." After a pause--"Mrs. Pryor, I feel a longing wish for
something."

"For what, Caroline?"

"You know I always delight to hear you sing. Sing me a hymn just now.
Sing that hymn which begins,--

'Our God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
Our refuge, haven, home!'"

Mrs. Pryor at once complied.

No wonder Caroline liked to hear her sing. Her voice, even in speaking,
was sweet and silver clear; in song it was almost divine. Neither flute
nor dulcimer has tones so pure. But the tone was secondary, compared to
the expression which trembled through--a tender vibration from a feeling
heart.

The servants in the kitchen, hearing the strain, stole to the stair-foot
to listen. Even old Helstone, as he walked in the garden, pondering over
the unaccountable and feeble nature of women, stood still amongst his
borders to catch the mournful melody more distinctly. Why it reminded
him of his forgotten dead wife, he could not tell; nor why it made him
more concerned than he had hitherto been for Caroline's fading girlhood.
He was glad to recollect that he had promised to pay Wynne, the
magistrate, a visit that evening. Low spirits and gloomy thoughts were
very much his aversion. When they attacked him he usually found means to
make them march in double-quick time. The hymn followed him faintly as
he crossed the fields. He hastened his customary sharp pace, that he
might get beyond its reach.

"Thy word commands our flesh to dust,--
'Return, ye sons of men;'
All nations rose from earth at first,
And turn to earth again.

"A thousand ages in Thy sight
Are like an evening gone--
Short as the watch that ends the night
Before the rising sun.

"Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away;
They fly, forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.

"Like flowery fields, the nations stand,
Fresh in the morning light