you may write—goodness, happiness, heaven, or—sin, misery, hell. And the words once written, no chemical art can erase them. The substance of the paper itself must be rubbed through by the file of suffering before the writing can be effaced. Infancy is the soft metal in the moulder’s hands; he may shape it in the image of a fiend, or the form of an angel—and when finished, the statue hardens into rock, which nothing but the hammer of God’s providence can break; nothing but the fire of God’s providence can melt for re-moulding. CHAPTER XIV. GUSTY. “Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy! Which sweet from childhood’s rosy lips resoundeth, Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy, And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth.” MRS. NORTON There she sat motionless. The only sounds were the beating of the rain against the windows, and the racing of the rats through the cuddies. At last the noise of footsteps tearing up the stairs, and a voice shouting a sea-song startled the wild girl—she looked up just as Gusty Wilde burst into the room, and running up to her, caught her around the neck, and gave her a boisterous salute, exclaiming breathlessly, “I just got home last night, Hagar! and have been wanting to run over and see you so much, but mother detained me this morning, and I couldn’t, but you see as soon as the storm subsided a little I ran over here, ’specially as mother gives me a tea-party this evening in honor of my coming home. She has baked a plum cake, and I have brought you home a monkey; so, Hagar, you must return with me. I came on purpose to fetch you; _you_ won’t be afraid to cross the swollen river.” He was a fine, noble looking boy, stoutly built, with a full face, rosy complexion, clear merry blue eyes, and an abundance of soft yellow curls clustering thick around a brow of almost feminine whiteness. He wore a sailor’s blue jacket, white trousers, and tarpaulin hat. He looked at Hagar for her answer. Observing now for the first time the girl’s disconsolate air, he sat down beside her, pulled off his tarpaulin hat, and placing it between his knees, put his arm quietly around the neck of the child, and kissing her dark brow gently, inquired, “Hagar, what is the matter?” She did not reply, but remained in her first posture with her elbows on her knees, her chin propped up by her hands, and her black elf locks streaming down each side of her face. He gently put her hair back from her face, and tucking it behind her ears, asked kindly, “Where is Rosalia, Hagar, and why are you up here in this cold, damp room alone?” “How did you know that I was here?”