She drew the lamp towards her and opened the book. The shade on the lamp kept the light from her face; but had Bradford seen it, it would have told him no more of the thoughts beneath it than the stone in the churchyard had told him of Elizabeth Purcill. He watched her turning over the leaves slowly, and thought that her hand trembled a little at the close. Those pages must have stirred many a memory and many a grief, as the wind shakes the bare boughs of the trees, though blossom, fruit, and leaves have long since fallen. She closed the book, and spoke at last:--"I think, Bradford, this book belongs rightfully but to one person,--Mr. Thornton Lee. Shall I send it to him?" Eleanor's question was uttered in a tone that seemed to admit of but one reply. Bradford assented. If he might not keep the journal himself, he would rather Thornton Lee should have it than his aunt. The next day, Thornton Lee received a small packet, accompanied by a note which ran thus:-- "To do justice to the memory of one who, years ago, came between us, I send you this little book, found in the old well yesterday. From it you will learn how she came by her death, and--how much she loved you. ELEANOR PURCILL." As Thornton Lee read the journal, his children climbed his knee and twined his gray curls around their fingers, and his wife came and leaned sportively over his shoulder and looked at the yellow leaves. In some lives, as in some years, there is an after-summer; but in others, the hoar-frosts are succeeded by the winter snow. THE DEAD HOUSE. Here once my step was quickened, Here beckoned the opening door, And welcome thrilled from the threshold To the foot it had felt before. A glow came forth to meet me From the flame that laughed in the grate, And shadows a-dance on the ceiling Danced blither with mine for a mate. "I claim you, old friend," yawned the arm-chair,-- "This corner, you know, is your seat." "Rest your slippers on me," beamed the fender,-- "I brighten at touch of your feet." "We know the practised finger," Said the books, "that seems like brain"; And the shy page rustled the secret It had kept till I came again. Sang the pillow, "My down once quivered On nightingales' throats that flew Through moonlit gardens of Hafiz To gather quaint dreams for you." Ah, me, where the Past sowed heart's-ease, The Present plucks rue for us men! I come back: that scar unhealing Was not in the churchyard then. But, I think, the house is unaltered; I will go and beg to look At the rooms that were once familiar To my life as its bed to a brook. Unaltered! Alas for the sameness That makes the change but more! 'Tis a dead man I see in the mirrors, 'Tis his tread that chills the floor! To learn such a simple lesson Need I go to Paris and Rome,-- That the many make a household, But only one the home?