side-board; the glass, from which such bumpers sparkled for those who
are hopelessly scattered now, or for ever gone; the doors they opened;
the walls that echoed their long-hushed laughter,--are we wise when we
part with them all, or, when compelled to do so, to leave them
eagerly?

I remember my brother James used to say: "What is our envy for our
country friends, but that their homes are permanent and
characteristic? Their children's children may play in the same
garden. Each annual festival may summon them to the old hearth. In
the meeting-house they sit in the wooden pews where long ago they sat
and dreamed of Jerusalem, and now as they sit there, that long ago is
fairer than the holy city. Through the open window they see the grass
waving softly in the summer air, over old graves dearer to them than
many new houses. By a thousand tangible and visible associations they
are still, with a peculiar sense of actuality, near to all they love."

Polly would call it a sentimental whim--if she could take
Mrs. Croesus's advice before she spoke of it--but what then? When I
was fifteen, I fell desperately in love with Lucy Lamb. "Pooh, pooh,"
said my father, "you are romantic, it's til a whim of yours."

And he succeeded in breaking it up. I went to China, and Lucy married
old Firkin, and lived in a splendid house, and now lies in a splendid
tomb of Carrara marble, exquisitely sculptured.

When I was forty, I came home from China, and the old gentleman said,
"I want you to marry Arabella Bobbs, the heiress. It will be a good
match."