lengthens out into a century! How many new associations have
wreathed themselves about their hearts since then! The old time is
gone, and a new time has come for others--not for them. They are
but the rusting link that feebly joins the two, and is silently
loosening its hold and dropping asunder.

It seems but yesterday--and yet three of their children have sunk
into the grave, and the tree that shades it has grown quite old.
One was an infant--they wept for him; the next a girl, a slight
young thing too delicate for earth--her loss was hard indeed to
bear. The third, a man. That was the worst of all, but even that
grief is softened now.

It seems but yesterday--and yet how the gay and laughing faces of
that bright morning have changed and vanished from above ground!
Faint likenesses of some remain about them yet, but they are very
faint and scarcely to be traced. The rest are only seen in dreams,
and even they are unlike what they were, in eyes so old and dim.

One or two dresses from the bridal wardrobe are yet preserved.
They are of a quaint and antique fashion, and seldom seen except in
pictures. White has turned yellow, and brighter hues have faded.
Do you wonder, child? The wrinkled face was once as smooth as
yours, the eyes as bright, the shrivelled skin as fair and
delicate. It is the work of hands that have been dust these many
years.

Where are the fairy lovers of that happy day whose annual return
comes upon the old man and his wife, like the echo of some village
bell which has long been silent? Let yonder peevish bachelor,