Could they have known, those men of childlike faith, Half ignorant, half sublime, The fitness of the souls' memorial day Falling within the time Of Nature's holy calm, her blest repose,-- When all the land with loving fervor glows, And from the naked woods, the empty fields, through the soft haze, Her work well done, her garners full, she offers up her praise. A stillness fills the consecrated air,-- The blustering winds that swept The red and yellow leaves in giddy rounds, By mighty hands are kept In their four corners, while the liquid gold And purple tints over the earth unrolled, And full of mystery and heavenly peace, as though the skies Had opened, and let out the atmosphere of Paradise. Departed souls! Their memory may _come_ With grief in Spring's soft hours,-- With weary, lonely sadness when our hands Are gathering summer flowers,-- With wild despair in winter: when the graves Are white with drifted snow, and wildly raves The wind among the stones and monuments, in accents dread, Calling in vain the sculptured names of our beloved dead. But in this golden dream-time of the year, Our bitter murmurs cease;-- We seem to feel the presence of the dead, Their shadowy touch of peace; We seem to see their faces as we gaze Longingly forth into the purple haze, And hear the distant chorus of the happy souls at rest,-- And catch the well-known accents of the voice we loved the best." All Souls' Day, November 2nd. In the evening, as Aunt Faith was sitting on the piazza with Bessie, Mr. Leslie came up the walk; Sibyl was in the parlor playing soft chords on the piano, but she could hear his words as he spoke. Mr. Leslie's voice was deep, but clear, and his pronunciation perfectly distinct without any apparent effort. He did not obtrude the alphabet unpleasantly upon his hearers; he was not so anxious to show his correct pronunciation of "Been" as to force it to rhyme with "Seen;" he was not so much concerned with "Institute," as to te-u-ute the last syllable into undue importance; neither did he bombard his hearers with the arrogance of rolling _rr's_. Although his voice was not loud, any one occupying even the last seat in the chapel could not only hear him, but was absolutely invited to listen by the pleasant distinctness of the words. "I am pleased to be able to tell you that Margaret and the children are safe in the farm-house, Mrs. Sheldon," he said, taking a seat on the piazza. "Poor girl, how glad she was to get there! She sent her grateful thanks to you." "How did the children bear the ride?" asked Aunt Faith.