These last words were spoken in a milder and more paternal tone, and a faint smile played on his lips. They all gathered round him, and began a thousand thanks; but Doctor Barnabé rose from his seat, and brought his great coat, that was lined with puce-colored taffeta, which he had thrown over a chair, and while his young auditors assisted him in putting it on, he said, “Adieu, gentlemen! adieu, ladies! my cabriolet is ready, night is coming on, and the roads are bad; I must take my leave—good night!” When Dr. Barnabé, in his cabriolet of green osier, and the little gray horse, tickled by the whip, were about starting, Madame de Moncar rose quickly, and placing her foot on the step she leaned over toward the doctor, and said to him in a low tone—so low none else could hear— “Doctor, I give you the white house, and will have it arranged the same as——when you loved Eva Meredith.” And she hastened away without giving him time to answer; in a few minutes the carriages and cabriolet left in different directions. * * * * * THE DESERTED ROAD. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. Ancient road, that winds deserted Through the level of the vale, Sweeping toward the crowded market, Like a stream with scarce a sail. Standing by thee, I look backward, And as in the light of dreams See the years roll down and vanish Like thy whitely tented teams. Here I stroll along the village As in youth’s departed morn; But I miss the crowded coaches And the driver’s bugle-horn. Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters Filling buckets at the wells, With their wains from Conestoga, And their orchestras of bells. To the moss-grown, wayside tavern Comes the noisy crowd no more, And the faded sign complaining Swings unnoticed at the door. The old toll-man at the gateway Waiting for the few who pass Reads the melancholy story In the thickly springing grass. Ancient highway, thou art vanquished— The usurper of the vale Rolls, in fiery, iron rattle, Exultations on the gale. Thou art vanquished and neglected; But the good which thou hast done, Though by man it be forgotten, Shall be deathless as the sun. Though neglected, gray and grassy, Yet I pray that my decline May be through as vernal valleys. And as blest a calm as thine. * * * * * THE OLD MAN’S COMFORT. BY LIEUT. A. T. LEE, U. S. ARMY. I am old and gray—I am old and gray, And my strength is failing me day by day; But it warms my heart when the sun has gone And her robe of stars the night puts on, To gaze on the glad ones who gather here, To breathe their sweet songs on my aged ear.