What remembrance was it that thrilled me with a sudden shock as my glance rested on the first words of the little poem? I read it from beginning to end, and the lines, commonplace as they will seem to strangers, must always remain imprinted on my memory. "Hope guards the jewels, peerless gems and bright, To crown beloved brows with living light; When other guardians fail, and joy flies fast, Hope leads thee to the treasure-house at last. "Hope guards the jewels; love may prove untrue, But faithful Hope creates thy life anew; To her, the fairest grace of all the three, I leave my precious things to keep for thee. "Hope guards the jewels; there will come a day, When she, who loves thee, shall be far away; But Hope will hover near on angel wings, And guide thee by the tuneful song she sings." As one in a dream, I put down the album and took up the guitar. Already the September sunshine was beginning to wane, and I carried it close to the window (just as my husband had done when it first came into the house) and examined the piece of paper pasted inside the instrument. "Hope guards the jewels." The handwriting here was the same as that in the book. And as the truth flashed upon my mind, a feeling something like awe overwhelmed me for a moment, and made me tremble from head to foot. It was verily the lost guitar of poor Inez which I was holding in my hands. Through changing scenes, through divers owners, through unknown chances and dangers, it had come back to her rightful heir at last. I remembered that a good man had guided me to the attic where it was to be found, and that a dying man had delivered it to me with a blessing. And now, with the finding of the guitar, was it not possible that other lost things might be found too? Just as my heart was throbbing fast with this thought, I heard the sound of Ronald's key in the hall door, and in the next instant he had entered the room. "My own dear little woman, welcome home!" he said, taking me into his arms, guitar and all. "Why, how bright you are looking! Is that red book my aunt's old album?" "Yes," I said, eagerly; "and oh, Ronald, here is some guitar music in it! Play it to me at once; I am impatient to hear this tune." He ran his eye over the notes, tuned the instrument, and yielded to my request at once. I was not deceived; the first chords, sweet and soft and gay, convinced me that we had discovered our mysterious melody at last. "So this is really our haunting air!" said Ronald, when he had played it to the end. "And it was a memory of my childhood, after all. I must have heard my mother sing it." I was silent for a minute, waiting for what he would say next. He read the title of the little song once or twice before it seemed to bring any light into his mind.