one,

But homeward-home-what home? had he a home?

His home, he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon,

Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either chasm,

Where either havens open'd on the deeps,

Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray;

Cut off the length of highway on before,

And left but narrow breadth to left and right

Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. On the nigh-naked tree the Robin piped

Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze

The dead weight of the dead leaf boro it down:

Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom;

Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light

Flared on him, and he came upon the place.

Then down the long street having slowly stolen,

His heart foreshadowing all calamity, His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home

Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes

In those far-off seven happy years were born;

But finding neither light nor murmur there

(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept

Still downward thinking "dead or dead to me!"

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went,

Seeking a tavern which of old he knew,

A front of timber-crost antiquity,
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old,
He thought it must have gone; but he
was gone

Who kept it; and his widow, Miriam
Lane,

With daily-dwindling profits held the house;

A haunt of brawling seamen once, but

At evening when the dull November day

Was growing duller twilight, to the hill.

There he sat down gazing on all below;

There did a thousand memories roll upon him,

Inspeakable for sadness. By and by The ruddy square of comfortable light, Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house,

Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures

The bird of passage, till he madly strikes

Against it, and beats out his weary life. For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street,

The latest house to landward; but behind,

With one small gate that open'd on the waste,

Flourish'd a little garden square and

wall'd:

I wait Iis time" and Enooh set himself

Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live.

Almost to all things could he turn his hand.

Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought

To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd

At lading and unlading the tall barks, That brought the stinted commerce of those days;

Thus carn'd a scanty living for himself:

Yet since he did but labor for himself, Work without hope, there was not lifó in it

Whereby the man could live; and as the year

Roll'd itself round again to meet the day

When Enoch had return'd, a languor

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope

On Enoch thinking" after I am gone, Then may she learn I loved her to the last."

He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said

"Woman, I have a secret-only swear, Before I tell you-swear upon the book Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." "Dead" clamor'd the good woman "hear him talk!

I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round."

"Swear" added Enoch sternly "on the book."

And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam

Who will embrace me in the world-tobe:

This hair is his she cut it off and gave it,

And I have borne it with me all these years,

And thought to bear it with me to my grave;

But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him,

My babe in bliss: wherefore when I
am gone,
Take, give her this, for it may comfort
her:

It will moreover be a token to her,
That I am he."

He ceased; and Miriam Lane
Made such a voluble answer promising

all,

When the red rose was redder than itself,

And York's white rose as red as Lancaster's,

With wounded peace which each had prick'd to death.

"Not proven" Averill said, or laughingly

"Some other race of Averills " prov'n or no,

What cared he? what, if other or the same?

He lean'd not on his fathers but himself.

But Leolin, his brother, living oft With Averill, and a year or two before call'd to the bar, but ever call'd away By one low voice to one dear neighborhood,

Would often, in his walks with Edith, claim

A distant kinship to the gracious blood

That shook the heart of Edith hearing him.

Sanguine he was: a but less vivid hue