FAIRFIELD (bursting into a paroxysm of tears).--"In her grave,--in her cold grave! Dead, dead!" Leonard was inexpressibly grieved and shocked.

It is the attribute of the poet to seem always living, always a friend.

Leonard felt as if some one very dear had been suddenly torn from his heart.

He tried to console his mother; but her emotion was contagious, and he wept with her.
"And how long has she been dead ?" he asked at last, in mournful accents.
"Many's the long year, many; but," added Mrs.Fairfield, rising, and putting her tremulous hand on Leonard's shoulder, "you'll just never talk to me about her; I can't bear it, it breaks my heart.

I can bear better to talk of Mark; come downstairs,--come." "May I not keep these verses, Mother?
Do let me." "Well, well, those bits o' paper be all she left behind her,--yes, keep them, but put back Mark's.