An arm, white, round, and smooth as a girl's, bared to the elbow, besmeared with blood and India ink, a hand, gliding over it rapidly, making strange tracery as it moved; a voice, soft and melodious, but tremulous in its tones, telling of a heart beating within the speaker's breast that was keenly susceptible to every emotion----that voice saying, "Did I show you the verses that I wrote about our Cross, Ella?" "No! no--_did_ you write _verses_ about it?" Without replying to the words, the boy laid down the needle he was using, drew from his pocket a little book, took from it a paper which he gave to the girl, silently resuming his work. And in the gloom and cold she read, FOR ELLA. THE SYMBOL AND MEMORIAL. I place the semblance of a Wayside Cross, Thy hands and mine have fashioned, in this place, Not only as an ornament, to grace With well-shaped form, and covering of moss, My shelves of books; nor yet Life's supreme loss To hint through it to all who will admire: Another impulse urged me, and a higher-- All false ambition and "world praise," pure dross, Which doth but weaken thought, and lay on toil A heavier curse than Adam's, stands reproved Before this solemn figure. He who died Ordained a Rest from this vain world's turmoil In shadow of his cross. So unremoved Here let this stand, and shed its warnings wide. Here shall it stand above these graves of Thought, These well-remembered, and frequented graves, In memory of the lion-hearted braves Who into Life new life and strength have brought-- In memory of the martyrs who have taught The sacred truths for which they dared to die-- In memory of the poet-souls that lie In the poor potter's field for strangers bought; Here let it stand, a hallowed monument, Most meet, o'er the great hopes entomed beneath-- And if it speaks to only you and I Of more than beauty, have we vainly blent The moss and lichens? Is it thy belief _Our_ thoughts shall ever in such shadow lie? "A rare _library_ I have," said the boy, with bitter accent--"yet I have made use of no poetic license in speaking of my shelves of books--I have just two shelves, and there are at least a dozen books in each." "I know of some men who have great libraries, and they might be glad to know as much as you do about books," said the girl, soothingly. "Never mind, you'll write more books than you own, one of these days." "Oh, Ella, you speak like a child--you _are_ a child indeed," he repeated, surveying her as if he had not thought of such a thing before. "I shall never, _never_ write a book, I have got another life marked out for me." "Who says so? who put such a thing into your head?" she asked, quickly. "Why, you write _now_--you write verses and prose--so you are an author already." "I wish to God I were!" "You are, you are, I tell you."