finds that so few of the men and women he meets, come within the charmed circle of his ideal refinement. I said to myself: "I am sure she could write a story if she would. I must have a try for one from her." When tea was over, she looked at her husband, and then went to the piano, and sang the following ballad: "'Traveller, what lies over the hill? Traveller, tell to me: I am only a child--from the window-sill Over I cannot see.' "'Child, there's a valley over there, Pretty and woody and shy; And a little brook that says--'take care, Or I'll drown you by and by.' "'And what comes next?' 'A little town; And a towering hill again; More hills and valleys, up and down, And a river now and then.' "'And what comes next?' 'A lonely moor, Without a beaten way; And grey clouds sailing slow, before A wind that will not stay.' "'And then?' 'Dark rocks and yellow sand, And a moaning sea beside.' 'And then?' 'More sea, more sea more land, And rivers deep and wide.' "'And then?' 'Oh! rock and mountain and vale, Rivers and fields and men; Over and over--a weary tale-- And round to your home again.' "'Is that the end? It is weary at best.' 'No, child; it is not the end. On summer eves, away in the west, You will see a stair ascend; "'Built of all colours of lovely stones-- A stair up into the sky; Where no one is weary, and no one moans, Or wants to be laid by.' "'I will go.' 'But the steps are very steep: If you would climb up there, You must lie at its foot, as still as sleep, And be a step of the stair, "'For others to put their feet on you, To reach the stones high-piled; Till Jesus comes and takes you too, And leads you up, my child!'" "That is one of your parables, I am sure, Ralph," said the doctor, who was sitting, quite at his ease, on a footstool, with his back against the wall, by the side of the fire opposite to Adela, casting every now and then a glance across the fiery gulf, just as he had done in church when I first saw him. And Percy was there to watch them, though, from some high words I overheard, I had judged that it was with difficulty his mother had prevailed on him to come. I could not help thinking myself, that two pairs of eyes met and parted rather oftener than any other two pairs in the room; but I could find nothing to object. "Now, Miss Cathcart, it is your turn to sing." "Would you mind singing another of Heine's songs?" said the doctor, as he offered his hand to lead her to the piano. "No," she answered. "I will not sing one of that sort. It was not liked last time. Perhaps what I do sing won't be much better though. "The waters are rising and flowing Over the weedy stone-- Over and over it going: It is never gone. "So joy on joy may go sweeping Over the head of pain-- Over and over it leaping: It will rise again."