Little hands, that, weak or strong, Have still to serve or rule so long, Have still so long to give or ask! I, who so much with book and pen Have toiled among my fellow-men, Am weary, thinking of your task. O little hearts, that throb and beat With such impatient, feverish heat, Such limitless and strong desires! Mine, that, so long has glowed and burned, With passions into ashes turned, Now covers and conceals its fires. O little souls, as pure and white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine! Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul, of mine! * * * * * MRS. LEWIS. A STORY IN THREE PARTS. PART III. XI. When we returned from our journey, Lulu was among the first to greet us, and with a cordial animation quite unlike the gentle, dawdling way she used to have. Indeed, I was struck the first evening with a new impulse, and a healthful mental current, that gave glow and freshness to everything she said. Mr. Lewis was gone to Cuba, she told us, and would be away a month more, but "George" was with her continually, and the days were all too short for what they had to do. She seemed to have attacked all the arts and sciences simultaneously, and with an eagerness very amusing to see. George had begun a numismatic collection for her, and she had made out an historic table from the coins, writing down all that was most important under each king's reign. George had brought home some fine specimens of stones, and had interested her much in mineralogy. George liked riding, and had taught her to ride; and she now perpetually made her appearance in her riding-habit and little jockey-cap, wishing she could do something for me here or there. George moulded, and taught her to mould; and she was