The pony has hard work to do under Carry’s swift riding—but he is fed by her own hand, with the cold breakfast rolls. The nuts are gathered in time, and stored for long winter evenings, when the fire is burning bright and cheerily—a true, hickory blaze—which sends its waving gleams over eager, smiling faces, and over well-stored book shelves, and portraits of dear, lost ones. While from time to time, that wife, who is the soul of the scene, will break upon the children’s prattle, with the silver melody of her voice, running softly and sweetly through the couplets of Crabbe’s stories, or the witchery of the Flodden tale. Then the boys will guess conundrums, and play at fox and geese; and Tray, cherished in his age, and old Milo petted in his dotage, lie side by side upon the lion’s skin before the blazing hearth. Little Tomtit the goldfinch sits sleeping on his perch, or cocks his eye at a sudden crackling of the fire for a familiar squint upon our family group. But there is no future without its straggling clouds. Even now a shadow is trailing along the landscape. It is a soft and mild day of summer. The leaves are at their fullest. A southern breeze has been blowing up the valley all the morning, and the light, smoky haze hangs in the distant mountain gaps, like a veil on beauty. Jamie has been busy with his lessons, and afterward playing with Milo upon the lawn. Little Carry has come in from a long ride—her face blooming, and her eyes all smiles and joy. The mother has busied herself with those flowers she loves so well. Little Paul, they say, has been playing in the meadow, and old Tray has gone with him. But at dinner time Paul has not come back. “Paul ought not to ramble off so far,” I say. The mother says nothing, but there is a look of anxiety upon her face that disturbs me. Jamie wonders where Paul can be, and he saves for him whatever he knows Paul will like—a heaping plateful. But the dinner hour passes and Paul does not come. Old Tray lies in the sunshine by the porch. Now the mother is indeed anxious. And I, though I conceal this from her, find my fears strangely active. Something like instinct guides me to the meadow; I wander down the brook-side, calling—Paul—Paul! But there is no answer. All the afternoon we search, and the neighbors search; but it is a fruitless toil. There is no joy that evening; the meal passes in silence; only little Carry, with tears in her eyes, asks—if Paul will soon come back? All the night we search and call—the mother even braving the night air, and running here and there, until the morning finds us sad and despairing. That day—the next—cleared up the mystery, but cleared it up with darkness. Poor little Paul!—he has sunk under the murderous eddies of the brook! His boyish prattle, his rosy smiles, his artless talk, are lost to us forever! I will not tell how nor when we found him, nor will I tell of our desolate home, and of _her_ grief—the first crushing grief of her life.