Nevertheless, even by night the sky is blue and not black; for we see through the shadow of the earth into the distant atmosphere of day, where the sunbeams are revelling. * * * * * ANDANTE. BEETHOVEN'S SIXTH SYMPHONY. Sounding above the warring of the years, Over their stretch of toils and pains and fears, Comes the well-loved refrain, That ancient voice again. Sweeter than when beside the river's marge We lay and watched, like Innocence at large, The changeful waters flow, Speaks this brave music now. Tender as sunlight upon childhood's head, Serene as moonlight upon childhood's bed, Comes the remembered power Of that forgotten hour. The little brook with merry voice and low, The gentle ripples rippling far below, Talked with no idle voice, Though idling were their choice. Now through the tumult and the pride of life, Gentler, yet firmly soothing all its strife, Nature draws near once more, And knocks at the world's door. She walks within her wild, harmonious maze, Evolving melodies from doubt and haze, And leaves us freed from care, Like children standing there. * * * * * THE BROTHERS. Doctor Franck came in as I sat sewing up the rents in an old shirt, that Tom might go tidily to his grave. New shirts were needed for the living, and there was no wife or mother to "dress him handsome when he went to meet the Lord," as one woman said, describing the fine funeral she had pinched herself to give her son. "Miss Dane, I'm in a quandary," began the Doctor, with that expression of countenance which says as plainly as words, "I want to ask a favor, but I wish you'd save me the trouble." "Can I help you out of it?" "Faith! I don't like to propose it, but you certainly can, if you please." "Then give it a name, I beg." "You see a Reb has just been brought in crazy with typhoid; a bad case every way; a drunken, rascally little captain somebody took the trouble to capture, but whom nobody wants to take the trouble to cure. The wards are full, the ladies worked to death, and willing to be for our own boys, but rather slow to risk their lives for a Reb. Now you've had the fever, you like queer patients, your mate will see to your ward for a while, and I will find you a good attendant. The fellow won't last long, I fancy; but he can't die without some sort of care, you know. I've put him in the fourth story of the west wing, away from the rest. It is airy, quiet, and comfortable there. I'm on that ward, and will do my best for you in every way. Now, then, will you go?"