“Ah! what is life! ’Tis but a passing touch upon the world; A print upon the beaches of the earth Next flowing wave will wash away; a mark That something passed; a shadow on a wall, While looking for the substance, shade departs: A drop from the vast spirit-cloud of God, That rounds upon a stock, a stone, a leaf, A moment, then exhales again to God.” “My mother’s writing, I know! What a difference in our dispositions! Where do you suppose I got my cheerful temperament from? Not from my father?” And again she faintly shuddered. “Your father’s desk is in the other room,” commented somebody. Looking up she laid the book softly down and prepared to leave the one spot in the house of which she had any remembrance. “I shall hate to see this dust removed, or these articles touched. Do you think I could be allowed to do the first handling? It is so like a sacrilege to give it over to some stranger.” But Clarke shook his head. “I have let you come with us into this damp house because it seemed only proper that your eyes should be the first to meet its desolation. I shall not let you remain here one moment after we are gone. If I were willing, Dr. Izard would not be; so do not think of it again.” The name of the doctor seemed to awaken in her a strange chain of thought. “Ah, Dr. Izard! He was standing beside my father when he closed my mother’s eyes. Why did he not come with me this morning to see me open the house? I begged him to do so but he declined quite peremptorily.” “Dr. Izard does not like me,” remarked Clarke sententiously. “Does not like you? Why?” queried Polly innocently, pausing on the threshold they were crossing. “I do not know: he has always avoided me, more than he has other people, I mean—and once when I spoke to him, the strangest expression crossed his face.” “I do not understand. He has always been very kind to me. Are you sure that you like him?” “I am indifferent to him; that is, I admire him, as everyone must who has eyes and an understanding. But I have no feeling toward him; he does not seem to have any place in my life.” “He has in mine,” she reluctantly admitted. “I often go to him for advice.” “Was it by his advice,” whispered Clarke, bending till his mouth touched her ear, “that you gave me your heart?” The little hand that lay on his arm drew itself slowly out and fell quite softly and significantly on her heaving breast. “No,” said she. “I have another adviser here, fully as powerful as he can ever be.” The gesture, the accent were so charming that he was provoked at the peering curiosity of the persons accompanying them. He would have liked to kiss those rosy lips for the sweetest thing they had ever said.