“Where the faded flower shall freshen,-- Freshen nevermore to fade; Where the shaded sky shall brighten,-- Brighten nevermore to shade; Where the sun-blaze never scorches; Where the star-beams cease to chill; Where no tempest stirs the echoes Of the wood, or wave, or hill;.... Where no shadow shall bewilder; Where life’s vain parade is o’er; Where the sleep of sin is broken, And the dreamer dreams no more; Where the bond is never severed,-- Partings, claspings, sob and moan, Midnight waking, twilight weeping, Heavy noontide,--all are done; Where the child has found its mother; Where the mother finds the child; Where dear families are gathered, That were scattered on the wild;.... Where the hidden wound is healed; Where the blighted life reblooms; Where the smitten heart the freshness Of its buoyant youth resumes;.... Where we find the joy of loving, As we never loved before,-- Loving on, unchilled, unhindered, Loving once, forevermore.” ... 30th. Aunt Winifred was weeding her day-lilies this morning, when the gate creaked timidly, and then swung noisily, and in walked Abinadab Quirk, with a bouquet of China pinks in the button-hole of his green-gray linen coat. He had taken evident pains to smarten himself up a little, for his hair was combed into two horizontal _dabs_ over his ears, and the green-gray coat and blue-checked shirt-sleeves were quite clean; but he certainly is the most uncouth specimen of six feet five that it has ever been my privilege to behold. I feel sorry for him, though. I heard Meta Tripp laughing at him in Sunday school the other day,--“Quadrangular Quirk,” she called him, a little too loud, and the poor fellow heard her. He half turned, blushing fiercely; then slunk down in his corner with as pitiable a look as is often seen upon a man’s face. He came up to Auntie awkwardly,--a part of the scene I saw from the window, and the rest she told me,--head hanging, and the tiny bouquet held out. “Clo sent these to you,” he stammered out,--“my cousin Clo. I was coming ’long, and she thought, you know,--she’d get me, you see, to--to--that is, to--bring them. She sent her--that is--let me see. She sent her respect--ful--respectful--no, her love; that was it. She sent her love ’long with ’em.” Mrs. Forceythe dropped her weeds, and held out her white, shapely hands, wet with the heavy dew, to take the flowers. “O, thank you! Clo knows my fancy for pinks. How kind in you to bring them! Won’t you sit down a few moments? I was just going to rest a little. Do you like flowers?”