filial sort of interest, a grand-daughterly reverence and respect. The sight of gray hair is a wonderful antidote to any tenderer feeling."
"I am very sorry not to oblige you; but the truth is, that Cousin Alice, hearing of my losses, has left the house abruptly, to earn her own living, and we do not know where she has gone."
"The independent little minx! Now I rather like that. There's the proper spirit. She'll take good care of herself; I haven't a doubt."
"But it is a most mortifying step to us. It is a reflection upon our hospitality. I would have worked my fingers off for her."
"No doubt. But she will merely turn hers into nutmeg-graters, by pricking them with her needle, and save you from making stumps of your own. Oh, never fear,—we shall find her presently. I'll make a description of her, and leave it with all the slop-shop fellows. 'Strayed or stolen: A young lady answering to the name of Alice; five feet and no inches; dressed in black; pale, blue-eyed, smiles when properly spoken to; of no use to any person but the owner. One thousand dollars reward, and no questions asked.' Isn't that it? It won't be necessary to add, that the disconsolate advertiser is breaking his heart on account of her absence."
"My dear Easelmann, I know your kindly heart; but I cannot be rallied out of this depression. I have only the interest of a cousin, a friend, a protector, in the girl; but her going away, after my other misfortunes, has plunged me into an abyss. I can't be cheerful."
"One word more, my dear fellow, and I go. You know I threatened to bore you every day; but I sha'n't continue the terebrations long at a time. You told me about the way your notes were disposed of. Now they are yours, beyond question, and you can recover them from the holder; he has no lien upon them whatever, for Sandford was not authorized to pledge them. It's only a spoiling of the Egyptians to fleece a broker."
"Perhaps the notes themselves are worthless, or will be. Nearly everybody has failed; the rest will go shortly."
"I see you are incurable; the melancholy fit must have its course, I suppose. But don't hang yourself with your handkerchief, nor drown yourself in your wash-basin. Good bye!"
On his way down Washington Street, Easelmann met his friend Greenleaf, whom he had not seen before for many days.
"Whither, ancient mariner? That haggard face and glittering eye of yours might hold the most resolute passer-by."
"You, Easelmann! I am glad to see you. I am in trouble."
"No doubt; enthusiastic people always are. You fretted your nurse and your mother, your schoolmaster, your mistress, and, most of all, yourself. A sharp sword cuts its own scabbard."
"She is gone,—left me without a word."
"Who, the Sandford woman? I always told you she would."
"No,—I left her, though not so soon as I should."
"A fine story! She jilted you."
"No,—on my honor. I'll tell you about it some other time. But Alice, my betrothed, I have lost her forever."
"Melancholy Orpheus, how? Did you look over your shoulder, and did she vanish into smoke?"
"It is her father who has gone over the Styx. She is in life; but she has heard of my flirtation"—
"And served you right by leaving you. Now you will quit capering in a lady's chamber, and go to work, a sadder and a wiser man."
"Not till I have found her. You may think me a trifler, Easelmann; but every nerve I have is quivering with agony at the thought of the pain I have caused her."
"Whew-w-w." said Easelmann. "Found her? Then she's eloped too! I just left a disconsolate lover mourning over a runaway mistress. It seems to be epidemic. There is a stampede of unhappy females. We must compress the feet of the next generation, after the wise custom of China, so that they can't get away."
"Whom have you seen?"
"Mr. Monroe, an acquaintance of mine."
"The same. The lady, it seems, is his cousin,—and is, or was, my betrothed."
"And you two brave men give up, foiled by a country-girl of twenty, or thereabouts!"
"How is one to find her?"
"What is the advantage of brains to a man who doesn't use them? Consider; she will look for employment. She won't try to teach, it would be useless. She is not strong enough for hard labor. She is too modest and reserved to take a place in a shop behind a counter, where she would be sure to be discovered. She will, therefore, be found in the employ of some milliner, tailor, or bookbinder. How easy to go through those establishments!"
"You give me new courage. I will get a trades-directory and begin at once."
"To-morrow, my friend. She hasn't got a place yet, probably."
"So much the better. I shall save her the necessity."
"Go, then," said Easelmann. "You'll be happier, I suppose, to be running your legs off, if it is to no purpose. A lover with a new impulse is like a rocket when the fuse is lighted; he must needs go off with a rush, or ignobly fizz out."
"Farewell, for to-day. I'll see you to-morrow," said Greenleaf, already some paces off.
PRAYER FOR LIFE
Oh, let me not die young!
Full-hearted, yet without a tongue,—
Thy green earth stretched before my feet, untrod,—
Thy blue sky bending over,
As her most tender lover,
With infinite meaning in its starry eyes,
Full of thy silent majesty, O God!
And wild, weird whispers from the solemn deep
Of the Great Sea ascending, with the sweep
Of the Wind-angel's wings across the skies,
Burdened with hints of awful memories,
Whose half-guessed grandeur thrills us till we weep!—
I love thy marvellous world too well—
Its sunny nooks of hill and dell,
Its majesty of mountains, and the swell
Of volumed waters—for my heart to yearn
Away from the deep truth which veils its splendor
In beauty there less dazzling, but more tender.
With grave delight I turn
To all its glories, from the tiniest bloom
Whose hour-long life just sweetens its own tomb
As with funereal spices,
To the far stars which burn
And blossom in fire through their vast periods,—
Borne in thy palm,
Like the pale lotus in the hand of Isis,
When throned white, and calm,
In solemn conclave of the mythic gods.
Oh, let me not die young,
A brother unclaimed
