See the shadows of his heroes
Girt around her cloudy throne;
And each day the ranks are strengthen'd
By great hearts to him unknown;
Noble things the great Past promised,
Holy dreams, both strange and new;
But the Present shall fulfil them,
What he promised, she shall do.

She inherits all his treasures,
She is heir to all his fame,
And the light that lightens round her
Is the lustre of his name;
She is wise with all his wisdom,
Living on his grave she stands,
On her brow she bears his laurels,
And his harvests in her hands.

Coward, can she reign and conquer
If we thus her glory dim?
Let us fight for her as nobly
As our fathers fought for him.
God, who crowns the dying ages,
Bids her rule, and us obey—
Bids us cast our lives before her,
With our loving hearts to-day!

HALF A LIFE-TIME AGO.

IN FIVE CHAPTERS. CHAPTER III.

AFTER the stun of the blow came the
realisation of the consequences. Susan would
sit for hours trying patiently to recal and
piece together fragments of recollection and
consciousness in her brother's mind. She
would let him go and pursue some senseless
bit of play, and wait until she could catch his
eye or his attention again, when she would
resume her self-imposed task. Michael
complained that she never had a word for him,
or a minute of time to spend with him now;
but she only said, she must try, while there
was yet a chance, to bring back her brother's
lost wits. As for marriage in this state of
uncertainty, she had no heart to think of it.
Then Michael stormed, and absented himself
for two or three days; but it was of no use.
When he came back he saw that she had
been crying till her eyes were all swollen up,
and he gathered from Peggy's scoldings
(which she did not spare him) that Susan
had eaten nothing since he went away. But
she was as inflexible as ever.

"Not just yet. Only not just yet. And
don't say again that I do not love you," said
she, suddenly hiding herself in his arms.

And so matters went on through August.
The crop of oats was gathered in; the wheat-
field was not ready as yet, when one fine day
Michael drove up in a borrowed shandry, and
offered to take Willie a ride. His manner,
when Susan asked him where he was going
to, was rather confused; but the answer was
straight and clear enough.

"He had business in Ambleside. He
would never lose sight of the lad, and have
him back safe and sound before dark."  So
Susan let him go.

Before night they were at home again:
Willie in high delight at a little rattling
paper windmill that Michael had bought for
him in the street, and striving to imitate this
new sound with perpetual buzzings. Michael,
too, looked pleased. Susan knew the look,
although afterwards she remembered that he
had tried to veil it from her, and had assumed
a grave appearance of sorrow whenever he
caught her eye. He put up his horse; for,
although he had three miles further to go,
the moon was up— the bonny harvest-moon—
and he did not care how late he had to drive
on such a road by such a light. After the
supper which Susan had prepared for the
travellers was over, Peggy went up-stairs to
see Willie safe in bed; for he had to have
the same care taken of him that a little child
of four years old requires.

Michael drew near to Susan.

"Susan," said he, "I took Will to see Dr.
Preston, at Kendal. He's the first doctor in
the county. I thought it were better for us
—for you — to know at once what chance there
were for him."

"Well!" said Susan, looking eagerly up.
She saw the same strange glance of
satisfaction, the same instant change to apparent
regret and pain. "What did he say?"  said
she. "Speak! can't you?"

"He said he would never get better of his
weakness."

"Never!"

"No; never. It is a long word, and hard
to bear. And there's worse to come, dearest.
The doctor thinks he will get worse from
year to year. And he said, if he was us—
you—he would send him off in time to
Lancaster Asylum. They've ways there both of
keeping such people in order and making
them happy. I only tell you what he said,"
continued he, seeing the gathering storm
in her face.

"There was no harm in his saying it," she
replied, with great self-constraint, forcing
herself to speak coldly instead of angrily.
"Folk is welcome to their opinions."

They sate silent for a minute or two, her
breast heaving with suppressed feeling.

"He's counted a very clever man," said
Michael, at length.

"He may be. He's none of my clever
men, nor am I going to be guided by him,
whatever he may think. And I don't thank
them that went and took my poor lad to
have such harsh notions formed about him.
If I'd been there, I could have called out the
sense that is in him."

"Well! I'll not say more to-night, Susan.
You're not taking it rightly, and I'd best be
gone, and leave you to think it over. I'll
not deny they are hard words to hear, but
there's sense in them, as I take it; and I
reckon you'll have to come to 'em. Anyhow,
it's a bad way of thanking me for my pains,
and i don't take it well in you, Susan," said
he, getting up, as if offended.