'And now, Charley,' said Ruth, when she had exhausted her budget, although she could have gone through the whole of it again with perfect satisfaction, as if it were something entirely new, 'and now, Charley, tell them.' What Charley had to tell was simply that he was to be made overseer of the printing establishment in which he was employed. There was an honest ring in his voice as he spoke of his good fortune, and I was convinced that it had been earned by merit. 'That is good news, indeed,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, with his hand on Charley's shoulder. 'Charley, by the time you are thirty, you will be a master printer. Bravo! Bravo! Mrs. Silver kissed him, without saying a word, and as he drew her face down to his and returned the kiss, and her gray hair mingled with his brown curly locks, he whispered something in her ear which brought a happy sigh from her. Then came the reading of Richard's letter. Mr. Silver took it from his pocket and opened it, and there was a general rustle of expectation in the room and a closer drawing together of chairs. He looked around him with a wistful air; the movement reminded him of a time when those who were now men and women grown were children. To this purpose he spoke, in a soft tone, before he commenced to read Richard's letter: 'You remind me, children, you remind me! It brings many happy evenings to my mind. Do you remember _Paul and Virginia_ and the _Vicar of Wakefield?_' This challenge loosened their tongues, and for five minutes they were busy recalling refreshing reminiscences. When memories of times that were sweet and pleasant come to us, they come wrapt in a cloud of solemn tenderness, and the voices of these children were pensive as they spoke. Behind the year whose seasons we are now enjoying is an arch of overhanging leaves and boughs, receding, as it were, and growing fainter in colour as old age steals upon us. Within this arch of green leaves and boughs live the memories of our past. As, with a wistful yearning to the days that were so sweet, we turn towards the arch, which spans from heaven to earth, it opens, as by the touch of a magic wand, and we see the tender trees that made our young lives green. They are fair and good, and their leaves and branches are dew-laden, though we of whom they are a part are walking to the grave. Some sadness is there always in the mind as we recall these memories, but only to those who believe not in the future, who see no hope in it, do they bring pain and distress. 'When our children were in jackets and pinafores,' said Mrs. Silver to me, 'my husband used to read to them every evening, and the hour was always looked forward to with delight.'