CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



the sound of our voice would pause for a little while, 

 and then pass by, like a white bird from the sea, 

 floating unscared close by the shepherd's head, or 

 alighting to trim its plumes on a knoll far up an in- 

 land glen ! Death seems not to have touched that face, 

 pale though it be — lifelike is the waving of those 

 gentle hands — and the soft, sweet, low music which 

 now we hear, steals not sure from lips hushed by the 

 burial mould! Restored by the power of love, she 

 stands before us as she stood of yore. Not one of all 

 the hairs of her golden head was singed by the light- 

 ning that shivered the tree under which the child had 

 run for shelter from the flashing sky. But in a mo- 

 ment the blue light in her dewy eyes was dimmed — 

 and never again did she behold either flower or star. 

 Yet all the images of all the things she had loved 

 remained in her memory, clear and distinct as the 

 things themselves before unextinguished eyes — and 

 ere three summers had flown over her head, which, 

 like the blossom of some fair perennial flower, in 

 heaven''s gracious dew and sunshine each season lifted 

 its loveliness higher and higher in the light — she 

 could trip her singing way through the wide wilder- 

 ness, all by her joyful self, led, as all believed, nor 

 erred they in so believing, by an angePs hand ! When 

 the primroses peeped through the reviving grass upon 

 the vernal braes, they seemed to give themselves into 

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