The gateway in the thicket below is between two mossy old posts of stone; and there is a tall hemlock flanked by a sturdy pine for sentinel. Within the cottage the library is wainscoted with native oak, and my trusty gun hangs upon a branching pair of antlers. My rod and nets are disposed above the generous bookshelves; and a stout eagle, once a tenant of the native woods, sits perched over the central alcove. An old-fashioned mantel is above the brown stone jambs of the country fireplace, and along it are distributed records of travel, little bronze temples from Rome, the _pietro duro_ of Florence, the porcelain busts of Dresden, the rich iron of Berlin, and a cup fashioned from a stag’s horn, from the Black Forest by the Rhine. Massive chairs stand here and there, in tempting attitude; strewed over an oaken table in the middle are the uncut papers and volumes of the day, and upon a lion’s skin, stretched before the hearth, is lying another Tray. But this is not all. There are children in the cottage. There is Jamie—we think him handsome—for he has the dark hair of his mother—and the same black eye, with its long, heavy fringe. There is Carry—little Carry I must call her now—with a face full of glee and rosy with health; then there is a little rogue some two years old, whom we call Paul—a very bad boy—as we tell him. The mother is as beautiful as ever, and far more dear to me, for gratitude has been adding, year by year, to love. There have been times when a harsh word of mine, uttered in the fatigues of business, has touched her, and I have seen that soft eye fill with tears, and I have upbraided myself for causing her one pang. But such things she does not remember, or remembers only to cover with her gentle forgiveness. Laurence and Enrica are living near us. And the old gentleman, who was Carry’s god-father, sits with me, on sunny days upon the porch, and takes little Paul upon his knee, and wonders if two such daughters as Enrica and Carry are to be found in the world. At twilight we ride over to see Laurence; Jamie mounts with the coachman, little Carry puts on her wide-rimmed Leghorn for the evening visit, and the old gentleman’s plea for Paul can not be denied. The mother, too, is with us, and old Tray comes whisking along, now frolicking before the horses’ heads, and then bounding off after the flight of some belated bird. Away from that cottage home I seem away from life. Within it, that broad and shadowy future, which lay before me in boyhood and in youth, is garnered—like a fine mist, gathered into drops of crystal.