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her eyes.

his dog had touched him to the core. Lucille wiped "And do you, then, travel alone?" said "Your father and your mother," she added, with an emphasis on the last word, "are they not with you?"


"I am an orphan!" said the stranger; "and I have neither brother nor sister."

The desolate condition of the blind man quite melted Lucille. Never had she been so strongly affected.

They had now passed into a narrow street leading toward the hotel, when they heard behind them the clatter of hoofs; and Lucille, looking hastily back, saw that a troop of the Belgian horse was passing through the town.

She drew her charge close by the wall, and, trembling with fear for him, she stationed herself by his side.

The troop passed at a full trot through the street. At the sound of their clanging arms, and the ringing hoofs of the heavy chargers, Lucille might have seen, had she looked at the blind man's face, that its sad features kindled with enthusiasm, and that his head was raised proudly from its wonted and melancholy bend.

"Thank Heaven!" she said; as the troop had nearly passed them, "the danger is over!" Not so. One of the last two soldiers who rode abreast was, unfortunately, mounted on a young and unmanage able horse.

The rider's oaths and digging spur only increased the fire and impatience of the charger: it plunged from side to side of the narrow street.

"Look to yourselves!" cried the horseman, as he was borne on to the place where Lucille and the stranger stood against the wall. "Are ye mad? Why do ye not run?"

"For Heaven's sake! for mercy's sake! He is blind!" cried Lucille, clinging to the stranger's side. "Save yourself, my kind guide!" said the stranger. But Lucille dreamed not of such desertion.

The trooper wrested the horse's head from the spot where they stood. With a snort, as it felt the spur, the enraged animal lashed out with its hind legs. Lucille, unable to save both, threw herself before the blind man, and received the shock directed against him. Her slight and delicate arm fell broken by her side; and the horseman was borne onward.

"Thank God, you are saved!" was poor Lucille's exclamation and she fell, overcome with pain and terror, into the arms of the stranger.


Yet the will is free;

Strong is the soul, and wise and beautiful;
The seeds of godlike power are in us still;
Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we will.



Still sits the schoolhouse by the road,
A ragged beggar sunning;
Around it still the sumachs grow,

And blackberry vines are running.

Within, the master's desk is seen,

Deep-scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jackknife's carved initial;

The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door's worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun

Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window panes,
And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled;

His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he lingered;
As restlessly her tiny hands

The blue-checked apron fingered.

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He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand's light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word:
I hate to go above you,
Because," the brown eyes lower fell
"Because, you see, I love you!"

Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave

Have forty years been growing!

He lives to learn, in life's hard school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,

Like her,

because they love him.




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Down the broad stairway came a laughing group of young folks, and among them a fair-faced girl of sweet sixteen- the Lady Elizabeth, Princess of England, fresh from her hours of study with her wise old tutor, Master Roger Ascham.

Oh, good Dame Sowerby," she cried, halting at her body-woman's side, "whose pony is it that fretteth and fumeth so by the causeway gate?"

"'Tis our lord the King's new hobby, Saladin, your Grace," responded the Dame, "brought here for his Majesty's inspection, and but barely broken, so sayeth Master Perkins, the groom."

"Ah, but he's a beauty, is he not, Dame?" the girl exclaimed; "how I would like to ride him once! I do believe I can."

"The saints forbid!" exclaimed the startled Dame Sowerby. "Thou ride Saladin? Why, my gracious lady, 'twould be thy certain death!"

"Did I not ride my brother's courser, Black Richard?" asked the Princess, proudly.

"Ay, that didst thou," said Perkins, the groom;

but Heaven save your ladyship! - Black Richard

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