“Martha,” he said, at last, “you said that they should never know.  Did you keep your word?”

“I kept it, Stephen.”

He was quiet a long while after that, and then he said,—­

“Some day I will tell them.  It’s all clearer to me now.  If ever I find the good God, I’ll teach Him to my boys out of my own life.  They’ll not love me less.”

He did not talk much that day; even to her he could not say that which was in his heart; but it seemed to him there was One who heard and understood,—­looking out, after all was quiet that night, into the far depth of the silent sky, and going over his whole wretched life down to that bitterest word of all, as if he had found a hearer more patient, more tender than either wife or child.

“Is there any use to try?” he cried.  “I was a thief.”

Then, in the silence, came to him the memory of the old question,—­

“Hath no man condemned thee?”

He put his hands over his face:—­

“No man, Lord!”

And the answer came for all time:—­

“Neither do I condemn thee.  Go, and sin no more.”

* * * * *

MEMORIAE POSITUM

R.G.S.

1863.

    I.

          Beneath the trees,
      My life-long friends in this dear spot,
      Sad now for eyes that see them not,
        I hear the autumnal breeze
    Wake the sear leaves to sigh for gladness gone,
    Whispering hoarse presage of oblivion,—­
        Hear, restless as the seas,
    Time’s grim feet rustling through the withered grace
    Of many a spreading realm and strong-stemmed race,
        Even as my own through these.

          Why make we moan
      For loss that doth enrich us yet
      With upward yearnings of regret? 
        Bleaker than unmossed stone
    Our lives were but for this immortal gain
    Of unstilled longing and inspiring pain! 
        As thrills of long-hushed tone
    Live in the viol, so our souls grow fine
    With keen vibrations from the touch divine
        Of noble natures gone.

          ’T were indiscreet
      To vex the shy and sacred grief
      With harsh obtrusions of relief;
        Yet, Verse, with noiseless feet,
    Go whisper, “This death hath far choicer ends
    Than slowly to impearl in hearts of friends;
        These obsequies ’tis meet
    Not to seclude in closets of the heart,
    But, church-like, with wide door-ways, to impart
        Even to the heedless street.”

    II.

          Brave, good, and true,
      I see him stand before me now,
      And read again on that clear brow,
        Where victory’s signal flew,
    How sweet were life! Yet, by the mouth firm-set,
    And look made up for Duty’s