rather recondite reflections as to the immutability of things and
impressions with which this domestic record opens.

Five years is a good stretch in a man's journey through the world.
Many things happen to us in that time. If a thoughtful person were to
set to work to record all the impressions which impinge upon his mind
during that period, he would fill a library with volumes, the mere
tale of its events would furnish a shelf. And yet how small they are
to look back upon. It seemed but the other day that he was leaning
over this very gate, and had turned to see a young girl dressed in
black, who, with a spray of honeysuckle thrust in her girdle, and
carrying a stick in her hand, was walking leisurely down the lane.

There was something about the girl's air that had struck him while she
was yet a long way off--a dignity, a grace, and a set of the
shoulders. Then as she came nearer he saw the soft dark eyes and the
waving brown hair that contrasted so strangely and effectively with
the pale and striking features. It was not a beautiful face, for the
mouth was too large, and the nose was not as straight as it might have
been, but there was a power about the broad brow, and a force and
solid nobility stamped upon the features which had impressed him
strangely. Just as she came opposite to where he was standing, a gust
of wind, for there was a stiff breeze, blew the lady's hat off, taking
it over the hedge, and he, as in duty bound, scrambled into the field
and fetched it for her, and she had thanked him with a quick smile and
a lighting up of the brown eyes, and then passed on with a bow.

Yes, with a little bow she had passed on, and he watched her walking
down the long level drift, till her image melted into the stormy
sunset light, and was gone. When he returned to the cottage he had