“Why?” said the boy, opening his eyes still wider, “is any of the folks dead?” “You little rascal, I say, where’s the schoolma’m?” “She jest went down that road,” said the boy, “two or three minutes ago.” “Was she alone?” said Charles. “She started alone,” said the boy, “and a man met her out there a little ways, and turned about and went with her.” Charles felt that his cake was all dough again, and that he might as well give it up for a bad job, and go home. Stephen Jones and Lucy Brown walked very leisurely home through the woods, and Charles and the boys went very leisurely in the boat across the pond. They even stopped by the way, and caught a mess of fish, since the boys had thrown their lines into the boat when they started. And when they reached the wharf, Charles, in order to show that he had been a fishing, took a large string of the fish in his hand, and carried them up to the house. Miss Lucy Brown, on her way home through the woods, had undoubtedly been informed of the proposed tea-party for the evening, to which she was to be invited, and to which Stephen Jones and Susan Jones were not invited; and when Miss Lucy’s invitation came, she sent word back, that she was _engaged_. * * * * * THE FAREWELL. Farewell, farewell—O! ne’er from me Till now that word hath hopeless passed; But, sweet one, faltered forth to thee, It seems this once as ’twere the last— The last that thou wilt ever hear From him who knows thy worth too well; I’ll stifle one relenting tear, That mingles in this last farewell. * * * * * HARRY CAVENDISH. BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC. CONCLUSION. I was now alone in the world; I had neither ship, nor home; and she I had loved was wedded to another. It is strange how misanthropical a man becomes, after disappointment has soured his disposition, and destroyed, one after another, the beautiful dreams of his youth. When I sat down and thought of the hopes of my earlier years, now gone forever; when I speculated upon my future prospects; when I recalled to mind how few of the friends I had begun life with remained, an indescribable sadness came over me, and, had it not been for my manhood, I would have found a relief in tears. My zest for society was gone. I cared little for the ordinary business of life. I only longed for a fitting opportunity to re-enter the service, and distinguish myself by some gallant deed, which I did not care to survive, for even fame had become hateful to me, since it reminded me how insufficient it was to win or retain the love of woman. In a word, I had become a misanthrope, and was fast losing all the energy of my character in sickly regrets over the past.