hotel office; and, neither as a memory, nor yet as of one who has gone,
but as if he were amongst them, living still, they speak of the
Patriarch as of yore.

And with this little circle of kindly, simple folk Time has dealt gently
too, for there is only one who is no more--Cale Rodgers, the proprietor
of the general store.

But the general store on the village street still flourishes, and in
Cale Rodgers' place is one whose speech is still a marvelous thing in
staid old New England ears--it is an Irish brogue perhaps, for his name
is Michael Coogan. There are little Coogans too, and Mamie is a happy
wife. And to the Coogans come sometimes letters from a far-western farm
to say that things are well and that prosperity has come to one who
signs himself--facetiously it always seems to Mamie who reads the
letters to her husband--as Pale Face Harry.

And so the years have passed, and it is summer time again. The fields
are green; the trees in leaf; the flowers in bloom. And there are
visitors who have come again to the scenes of yesterday--a man and
woman--and between them a sturdy little lad of eight. They stop at the
end of the wagon track and look out across the lawn.

It is still and peaceful, tranquil--and to them conies the soft, low
murmur of the surf. Slowly they walk across the lawn, and pass beneath
the splendid maples--and pause again.

The cottage is like some poet's fancy, hidden shyly in its creepers and
its vines; and seems to speak and breathe in its simple beauty of the
gentle soul who once had lived there--and loved his fellow-men. It is as