to the West Indies for his health.

"Bless my soul, Doctor, you haven't filled your glass! Permit me."

And the old gentleman poured into the one glass and then into the other.

"And now, Sir," he added, "now, Sir, let us drink to the health of Mr.
Gray, but not of the boys--ha! ha!"

"No, no, not of the boys? No, not of the boys. Thank you, Sir--thank you.
That is a pleasant liquor, Mr. Burt. H'm, ha! a very pleasant liquor.
Good-afternoon, Mr. Burt; a very good day, Sir. H'm, ha!"

As Hope left her grandfather, Mrs. Simcoe was sitting at her window,
which looked over the lawn in front of the house upon which Hope
presently appeared. It was already toward sunset, and the tender golden
light streamed upon the landscape like a visible benediction. A few rosy
clouds lay in long, tranquil lines across the west, and the great trees
bathed in the sweet air with conscious pleasure.

As Hope stood with folded hands looking toward the sunset, she began
unconsciously to repeat some of the lines that always lay in her mind
like invisible writing, waiting only for the warmth of a strong emotion
to bring them legibly out:

"Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave;
Though I feel that my soul is delivered
To pain, it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me;