Isabel. There, with her Father, by the lonely moor, Dwelt Isabel—her opening girlhood knew No Mother’s care, nor owned the tender love That Sisters give ; within that old Farm-house No merry voices woke at morn or eve, To stir the old man’s pulses with the sound That gives Age back its Youth again to hear ; Yet was the Father happy, in the kind And duteous solace of his daughter’s care, Who grew up silently, a thoughtful child, That in her yearning for companionship Took to herself for friends the sky, the stars That looked upon her with pure, loving eyes, And spoke a silent language to her ear ; The living things it was her care to tend, The Birds, that with sharp cry among the heath Called to each other, had a voice for her Of tones familiar, apprehended half, That made her feel herself the less alone ; The moorland flowers, minutely beautiful, Star-like, looked on Her like the stars, and smiled And the clear stream that welled upon its way From cool green cells, o’ergrown with mosses old, Above its pebbles lifted up a sound Of soothing—murmuring an endless tale. Wide stretched the level moor, nor lacked its range A soft and pastoral charm, with many herds Of grazing kine, that wandered there at will : Far on its verge the flush of morning broke, In crimson splendours tracing out a chain Of hills, upon whose broad and sun-lit slopes Were villages with glittering spires, and halls In folding woods embosomed from the view ;_ While far athwart, a line of gleaming sands. Lay northward, and low boomings of the sea Rose on the ear ; and in the golden eve Slow sailing past, went by the shining ships, Like phantom vessels pictured in the sky. Here, in a quiet that was more than mirth, Grew Isabel from childhood to the age When Youth is beautiful as in the morn, Whose changeful glory fleets from sun to shade, As if it owned its short-abiding stay, And knew it fading to the silent noon : So she grew on, until the hour when Youth Owns, half unconsciously, the deepening shade Flung on Life’s dial from the years to come, With trace of change and trial that they know. And thus the maiden owned within herself More earnest thought, more perfect consciousness, The yearning for a tenderer sympathy Than youth had craved, and in the flowers, thestream, There seemed to rise a tale more eloquent Than they had spoken to her girlish ear. So time wore on, and in his age again Her Father wed, yet made a prudent choice Of one who gave to Isabel the love A faithful elder Sister might have shown ; And they went forth together to their work, And in the labours of the house and field Each found a helpmate, strong in heart and hand, To lighten and to sweeten daily toil ; And as they lived in quiet and in peace, A child was born unto the house, and he The old man, blessed the son that to his age Brought gladness, and a hope for years to come, And now within the farm-house, where of old Had quiet brooded with unruffled wing, Lulled by the slow, dull tickings of the clock, That seemed a household genius sedate, That told, oracular, its drowsy tale— Awoke the echoes of the heart’s first songs,

A kneeling girl embraces boy who lies with his eyes closed on a bed. The boy on the bed wears a crown of flowers. The bed curtain is pulled back. 1/2 page contained within a single-ruled border; the top corners of the border are curved.

Endearing words of playfulness, that strove In vain to measure forth their tender wealth, To One whose look of infant wonderment Seemed half to question how it were that He, Lying in very helplessness, should prove The common centre of all hearts, the joy Of all within, of all without the house; The light of his old Father’s eyes which dwelt On him with anxious watchfulness, as if He were some fairy favour, or a boon That Heaven had lent, and might again reclaim. But unto Isabel the child became A holy ark, wherein the vague, sweet thoughts That stirred her heart with troubled tenderness, And sent it forth to find no resting-place, Might centre and expand in perfect Love. When the long summer came, it was her joy To wander with the baby in her arms, And when the mid-day steeped the hills in light And streamed a silver flood upon the sea, To lay him in his slumber on the grass, And wrapt him from the sun in heath and thyme, Until he looked a Fairy child, to sleep, Lulled by the droning murmurs of the Bee. And in the night, when all the house had gone Unto their beds, would Isabel arise, And, ere she slept herself, would go to kiss Her little Brother as he sleeping lay, Safe pillowed to his warm and rosy rest. And as the baby grew unto a child, He seemed to grow in infant graciousness, As if the love that met his dawning life With welcome, owned a fostering power to bless, And wrought unseen the gentle infiuence Through which the vernal Flower, dew-nourishèd, Unfolds to the warm sun its opening breast. So grew the child of many prayers, like Him * Who proved how sweet the holiness of youth,† In favour growing both with God and man ; And soon the sweetness of his lisping tones, With thoughtful meaning fraught beyond his years, Would seem to whisper forth a fond excuse For all their deep idolatry of love ; And in his play a tender gaiety That wayward childhood knows not, seemed todwell, With innocence, and in the angel-eyes So liquid, beautiful, a well of light, Abode a cloudless lustre, that would speak Of things a world like ours hath never known. So years stole on, and found that Family Abiding still in quiet and in love ; Until one year, when yellow Autumn brought Again its message of decay and change, The Father, who all day within the field Had bound his sheaves, and looked upon the store That the good season brought, with thankful eye, Came home to sicken, and before those sheaves With joy were garnered at the harvest home, Death gathered him, like Israel of old, A shock of wheat in fulness of his time, Well ripened for the harvest of the grave. And ere the newness of their grief found rest In the strange apathy we feel, as days Roll on, and bring not them we love again ; And ere they learned to look no more, with eve To see his stooping form come burthened home ; Or ceased, within the twilight, by the fire To see the white hair shining in the gloom, And aged hands spread forth unto the blaze— Ere time had yet returned to the course He must hold on, whate’er he takes away, The mother and her son together struck With fever, lay upon a bed that proved Of death to one, and she was carried forth To rest beside her husband in his grave. “ And must he follow too ?” thought Isabel, The trembling watcher o’er a doubtful strife ; “ Must he too follow ?” then her heart gave way In one long burst of agony and pain, That called on them who might return no more ; And on the bed she flung herself, and said, “ We two are left alone ; oh, little one ! And they that loved us rest within their graves ;” But as she raised her head, she heard his breath Come soft and regular, and now his lip, Half parted, reddened with the dew of health ; Then Isabel knelt down, and prayed to God With many tears, and gave Him thanks, and said, * 1 Sam. i. 17. † “ Sweet is the holiness of youth.” —Chaucer. “ I bless thee, Father, in that thou hast left A comfort to my spirit in its grief” Then as her heart grew strong within itself. She looked around with heedful care, and took, Account of all that might remain to them ; And when she found that now, her father gone, They could not hold the farm, then Isabel Took earnest counsel with herself, and said, “ My brother shall not have to labour on, Like him that is departed, all his life Rating the bread of carefulness and toil, With early rising, and late taking rest, And all to keep off iron-handed want, But I will work both for myself and Him, And hold together what is left, that when He comes to man’s estate, his hand may find. Its labour not his only portion here ;” And so she gave the child, with many prayers, With blessings, and with kisses, and with tears, Unto the keeping of an aged pair, Who dwelt beside the Farm, from youth till now In kindness living with her Father’s house : And Isabel went forth to eat the bread Of service, that some wealthier kindred gave, And she, who like the Shunamite of old, Had dwelt among her own, and done her work Unbidden, as it liked her, now became Obsequious, with eye that strove to catch The import of a wish before it rose, Anticipating duty ere command, In all things studious to show herself A servant careful for her master’s good, In singleness of heart, as one who owned The service of a Master in the heavens ; And they were kind, and she was well content, Or would have been, but for the haunting thoughts That flung the shadow of the face she loved Across her way, and to her quiet toil Brought troubling echoes of a childish voice. But with the early Spring, there eame a day, With leave for her to spend a little space Beside her little brother on the moor, And there she found him happy, growing still, As he had grown, in favour and in love ; And they went forth together on the moor, And looked upon the lambs that pastured there, And saw the sun light up the distant hills, And stream, a silver flood, upon the sea ; Then on the furrowed shore they stood, and saw The shining ships, slow sailing, pass them by, And heard the mighty tumult, as the tide Brought the slow curling wave unto their feet, And the boy clapped his little hands, and held His sister by the gown, and screamed aloud, In the strange gladness of a fearful joy ; And as they wandered home with footsteps slow, She sang to him, and told him many tales Of Saints and holy children dear to God ; And time fled past on swift unsullied wing, That quickly brought the hour of parting round, Then she arose, and took her leave with prayers, With blessings, and with kisses, and with tears, And went back to her work with thankful mind. But now as months wore on o’er Isabel A sadness stole, a trouble without name That in the labours of the house and field Stirred her with flutterings of vague unrest, And thrilled her pulse with unembodied fears ; And her soul sickened with a deep desire, A longing like to that the Switzer feels To see once more his mountain home, to hear The dashing of the torrent from the rock, And drink the ice-cool breeze before he dies ; And in the quiet house, and in the field Her ear was quick to catch unreal sounds, And seeming voices calling her by name ; And when she slept, a little arm was drawn Around her neck, a hand was clasped in hers, A soft cheek pillowèd upon her own,— And when she woke her face was wet with tears, And rest forsook her through the livelong night— So she besought her mistress, that once more, Although so distant from the promised day, Her step might lead her where her heart abode With the sole treasure that it owned on earth. So Isabel set forth before the dawn, A patient pilgrim, and the summer’s day Found her unwearied on her onward path, Upborne by feelings lightened, though perturbed, And all unconscious of the tedious way In fervent onward-lookings to its end. Once, when the mid-day sun was high in heaven, She met a glad refreshment in the looks Of one she knew, a neighbour and a friend, Who stayed his horse, and looked at her surprised, And said, “ Where go you, Isabel ? I go To L—, and thought that I should find youthere ;” And she replied, “ I go unto the moor To see my brother ; tell me, is he well ? How was he looking when you saw him last ?” But the man answered hastily and strange : “ I have not seen the child of late,—farewell ! Heaven prosper you upon your onward way !” And paused awhile, but ere her voice arose In further greeting, hastened on his way. And Isabel, in walking onwards, thought It strange that He, her old companion, Should pass her thus, but soon all thought gaveway All thought, all feeling merging into one ; For now as daylight’s soft decline drew on, She stood, and heard the murmur of the waves, And saw the sunset glow upon the hills, And stream, a silver flood, upon the sea ; She saw, yet marked them not, for now her eye Dwelt where her heart had dwelt with him solong. And as she drew unto the house, her pulse Grew quick with joy, as with light foot she stole On towards the open door, with thought to reach Its portal unperceived, perchance to hear Her name repeated in his evening prayer : But all was silent ! and she heard the clock, Her Father’s clock, creep on its drowsy tale, Far, far behind the beatings of her heart ; She looked within, and saw the aged pair That sat together silent by the fire, With eyes that rested vacant on the flame, As if they sought to trace out meanings there ; And now they heard her enter, and looked round Without a gesture of surprise or joy, To give an answer to her greeting words. A strange misgiving seized her, and the words, “ Oh, hath aught, happened ! is my brother ill ?” Broke quickly from her lips, but with a slow Perturbed utterance the answer fell ; “ Oh, Isabel, did you not meet our friend ? And did not He ?” . . . . “ Oh ! tell me all,” shecried, In agony, “ Oh, tell me what is this !” And their lips trembled, yet no sound arose, And their eyes fixed themselves on hers, and then Turned, as by instinct, on the curtained bed. There lay her little brother as to sleep, And on his waxen, brow, his lip, and eye, Abode the peace of a serene repose. Around his forehead lay a living wreath, The Summer Rose and bright Geranium, That shed a solemn halo round his rest ; And gathered closely round his form, and drawn Unto his chin, were garments whose strange white Smote on her spirit, when she saw their folds Unstirred by any breath, then Isabel Fell on her face, and knew her brother dead ; And through the stillness of that quiet room Arose a sound of agony and pain, A voice of lamentation, whose wild tones Called on His name who might return no more, ‘But to have seen thee once !—yet once again !”” And all was silent in the heart that mourned Its hope and treasure taken from the Earth. Then Isabel arose with thought to kiss Her brother in his slumber, as of yore, But as she bent above Him, on those lips So wan and ashen, and upon his brow, Abode the spirit of a deep repose ; And, as he lay, his sunken features wore The look they wore upon his mother’s knee ; Of something that this world hath never known, Of peace its troubled course can neither give Nor take away—of love unspeakable, Of perfect rest, and of a blest return Unto a home where they had smiled before. Then Isabel knelt down and prayed to God, With many tears, and gave him thanks, and said, “ I thank thee, Father, in that thou hast left A comfort to my spirit in its grief.” D. * * *