might never again enter those sacred walls came to his mind, a tear
glistened in his eye that he could not rudely wipe away.

Next was the cot of the pastor. He had grown old in the service of
his Master, and the frosts of nearly three-score winters rested
their glory upon his head. All loved and respected him, for with
them he had wept, and with them he had rejoiced. Many had fallen
around him; withered age and blooming youth he had followed to the
grave; yet he stood forth yet, and, with clear and musical voice,
preached the truths of God.

An old gray building, upon whose walls the idler's knife had carved
many a rude inscription, was the village school. There, amid those
carvings, were seen the rough-hewn initials of many a man now
"well-to-do in the world." Some, high above the rest, seemed as
captains, and almost over-shadowed the diminutive ones of the little
school-boy, placed scarce thirty inches from the ground.

Edward was a pet among the villagers. He had taken the lead in all
the frolickings, and many a bright-eyed lass would miss his
presence, and loud, clear laugh, at the coming "huskings."

Young and old reluctantly bade him "good-by," and, as the stage
wound its circuitous way from the village, from many a heart
ascended a prayer that He who ruleth over all would prosper and
protect him.

"Good luck to him, God bless him!" said dame Brandon, as she entered
the house. "He was always a kind, well-meant lad," she continued,
"and dame Brandon knows no evil can befall him; and Emily, my dear,