"How I wish I could see them all! There is not a codger in my native town--not a crusty fusty old bachelor--not an envious tattling old maid--not a flirt, sot, pauper, idiot, or sainted hypocrite, but I could welcome with an embrace. But if I could only see my father, or Jimmy, or Lina, dear girl! how much better I should feel! It would make me ten years younger, to have a chat with Lina; and, to tell the truth, I should like to see any woman, just to see how it would seem. I'd go a quarter of a mile, now, to look at a row of aprons hung out to dry. But there! it's no use to talk. "An evening like this is such an one as might entice me to my mother's grave, were I at home. Oh! if she were but alive--if I could only know that she was still somewhere on the wide earth, to think and pray for me--I might be better, as well as happier. Methinks it must be a blessed thing to be a mother, if all sons cherish that parent's memory as I have mine--and they do. It cheers and sustains the exile in a stranger's land; it invigorates him in trial, and lights him through adversity; it warns the felon, and haunts and harrows the convict; it strengthens the captive, and exhilarates the homeward-bound. Truly must it be a blessed thing to be a mother!" He stopped--for in the moonlight was distinctly seen the figure of a horseman, emerging from the public road, and galloping across the clearing. He turned towards the office of the young surveyor, and in a few moments the carrier had related the incident by which he obtained the paper, and placed "The Village Chronicle" in Alfred's hand. He struck a light, tore off the wrapper, and the only written word which met his eye was "Lina." "Dear name!" said he, "I could almost kiss it, especially as there is none to see me. She must have been in a prodigious hurry! and how funny that little rascal, Jimmy, must have looked! Well, 'when he next doth run a race, may I be there to see.'" He took the paper to read. It was a very late one--he had never before received one so near the date; and even that line of dates was now so pleasing. First was Miss Helena Carroll's poetry. "Dear girl!" said he, "what a beautiful writer she is! Really, this is poetry! This is something which carries us away from ourselves, and more closely connects us with the enduring, high, and beautiful. Methinks I see her now--more thin, pale, and ethereal in her appearance than when we were gay school-mates; but I wonder that, with all her treasures of heart and intellect, she is still Helena Carroll.