absence, to our birth-place, the soul floats unconsciously in a sea of
memories, and the dancing waves dreamily toss themselves upon the
shores of times long passed. The belfry clock strikes and we fear we
shall be late to school, and recovering from this fear feel relieved
that our anxiety is over. The same dog runs along the street on whose
account we used to go far out of our way. Here sits the old huckster
whose apples often led us into temptation, and even now, we fancy they
must taste better than all other apples in the world, notwithstanding
the dust on them. There one has torn down a house and built a new one.
Here the old music-teacher lived. He is dead--and yet how beautiful it
seemed as we stood and listened on summer evenings under the window
while the True Soul, when the hours of the day were over, indulged in
his own enjoyment and played fantasies, like the roaring and hissing
engine letting off the steam which has accumulated during the day.
Here in this little leafy lane, which seemed at that time so much
larger, as I was coming home late one evening, I met our neighbor's
beautiful daughter. At that time I had never ventured to look at or
address her, but we school-children often spoke of her and called her
"the Beautiful Maiden," and whenever I saw her passing along the street
at a distance I was so happy that I could only think of the time when I
should meet her nearer. Here in this leafy walk which leads to the
church-yard, I met her one evening and she took me by the arm, although
we had never spoken together before, and asked me to go home with her.
I believe neither of us spoke a word the whole way; but I was so happy
that even now, after all these years, I wish it were that evening, and
that I could go home again, silently and blissfully, with "the
Beautiful Maiden."

Thus one memory follows another until the waves dash together over our
heads, and a deep sigh swells the breast, which warns us that we have