As for your parents, in the intervals of the game you listen dreamily to
their talk with the mother of Madge,--good Mrs. Boyne. It floats over
your mind, as you rest your chin upon your clenched hand, like a strain
of old familiar music,--a household strain that seems to belong to the
habit of your ear,--a strain that will linger about it melodiously for
many years to come,--a strain that will be recalled long time hence,
when life is earnest and its cares heavy, with tears of regret and with
sighs of bitterness.

By-and-by your game is done; and other games, in which join Nelly (the
tears come when you write her name _now_!) and Madge, (the smiles come
when you look on her _then_,) stretch out that sweet eventide of Home,
until the lamp flickers, and you speak your friends--adieu. To Madge, it
is said boldly,--a boldness put on to conceal a little lurking tremor;
but there is no tremor in the home good-night.

----Aye, my boy, kiss your mother,--kiss her again; fondle your sweet
Nelly; pass your little hand through the gray locks of your father; love
them dearly while you can! Make your good-nights linger and make your
adieus long, and sweet, and often repeated. Love with your whole
soul,--Father, Mother, and Sister,--for these loves shall die!

----Not indeed in thought,--God be thanked! Nor yet in tears,--for He
is merciful! But they shall die, as the leaves die,--die, as Spring dies
into the heat and ripeness of Summer, and as boyhood dies into the
elasticity and ambition of youth. Death, Distance, and Time shall each
one of them dig graves for your affections; but this you do not know,
nor can know, until the story of your life is ended.