familiar friendship, of some half-dozen whiskered cubs, having what is technically called the run of the house. No! it was a repository for feeling and for memory, and, in its fair pages, presented an image of Emily's heart. Many of these were marked, it is true; and what human being's character is unchequered? But it was blotless; and the virgin page looks not so white as when the contrast of the sable ink is there.
Clarendon read aloud his first contribution--who knows it not? The very words form a music, and that music is Metastasio's,
"Placido zeffiretto, Se trovi il caro oggetto, Digli che sei sospiro Ma non gli dir di chi, Limpido ruscelletto, Se mai t'incontri in lei, Digli che pianto sei, Ma non le dir qual' eiglio Crescer ti fe cosi."
"And now, Emily! for my parting tribute--if I remember right, it was sorrowful enough."
Gage read, with tremulous voice, the following, which we will christen
I will not be the lightsome lark, That carols to the r
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