162 LAST 



and break out again into a cadence of 

 soft, imploring notes, blent with a pathos 

 that went straight to the old man's heart, 

 making it heavy and sad. Like the soul 

 of some sweet music long since dead it 

 came, singing of the old, old days when 



" Love was warm and youth was young," 

 of smiles and tears, vain longings and 

 regrets, and of that golden thread of 

 happiness unspeakable which entwined 

 them all. 



One hot day in summer the old an- 

 gler was fishing where the trees grow 

 small and the moor is in sight. Never 

 before had the great sun seemed to 

 shine on so beautiful an earth, but little 

 did "Old Peter" think that he would 

 not be by his cottage door to watch it 

 set that night. The peat-stained water 

 danced merrily over the rocks, and the 

 sweet air was full of the hum of the wild 

 mountain bee. Crimson heath clung to 

 the grey, lichened boulders, and blue- 



