"Ay," said the old man, as the well-remembered figure of his ancient instructor seemed to rise before him in his grave-apparel, with beard and gold-headed cane, black velvet doublet and cloak, "here lies a man who, as people have thought, had it in his power to avoid the grave! He had no little grandchild to tease him. He had the choice to die, and chose it." So the old gentleman led Pansie over the stone, and carefully closed the gate; and, as it happened, he forgot the uprooted shrub, which Pansie, as she ran, had flung away, and which had fallen into the open grave; and when the funeral came that afternoon, the coffin was let down upon it, so that its bright, inauspicious flower never bloomed again. FOOTNOTES: [A] See July number, 1864, of this Magazine, for the first chapter of the story. The portion now published was not revised by the author, but is printed from his first draught. THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY. See, the fire is sinking low, Dusky red the embers glow, While above them still I cower,-- While a moment more I linger, Though the clock, with lifted finger, Points beyond the midnight hour. Sings the blackened log a tune Learned in some forgotten June From a school-boy at his play, When they both were young together, Heart of youth and summer weather Making all their holiday. And the night-wind rising, hark! How above there in the dark, In the midnight and the snow, Ever wilder, fiercer, grander, Like the trumpets of Iskander, All the noisy chimneys blow! Every quivering tongue of flame Seems to murmur some great name, Seems to say to me, "Aspire!" But the night-wind answers,--"Hollow Are the visions that you follow, Into darkness sinks your fire!" Then the flicker of the blaze Gleams on volumes of old days, Written by masters of the art, Loud through whose majestic pages Rolls the melody of ages, Throb the harp-strings of the heart. And again the tongues of flame Start exulting and exclaim,-- "These are prophets, bards, and seers; In the horoscope of nations, Like ascendant constellations, They control the coming years." But the night-wind cries,--"Despair! Those who walk with feet of air Leave no long-enduring marks; At God's forges incandescent Mighty hammers beat incessant, These are but the flying sparks. "Dust are all the hands that wrought; Books are sepulchres of thought; The dead laurels of the dead Rustle for a moment only, Like the withered leaves in lonely Church-yards at some passing tread." Suddenly the flame sinks down; Sink the rumors of renown; And alone the night-wind drear Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer,-- "'T is the brand of Meleager Dying on the hearth-stone here!"