after years—whatever may be their successes, or their honors—can never recreate. Under the roof-tree of his home, the boy feels safe: and where, in the whole realm of life, with its bitter toils, and its bitterer temptations, will he feel safe again?
But this you do not know. It seems only a grand old place; and it is capital fun to search in its corners, and drag out some bit of quaint old furniture, with a leg broken, and lay a cushion across it, and fix your reins upon the lion's claws of the feet, and then—gallop away! And you offer sister Nelly a chance, if she will be good; and throw out very patronizing words to little Charlie, who is mounted upon a much humbler horse,—to wit, a decrepid nursery-chair,—as he of right should be, since he 1s three years your junior.
I know no nobler forage ground for a romantic, venturesome, mischievous boy, than the garret of an old family mansion, on a day of storm. It isa perfect field of chivalry. The heavy rafters, the dashing rain, the piles of spare mattresses to carouse upon, the big trunks to hide in, the old white coats and hats hanging in obscure corners, like ghosts—are great! And it is so far away from the old lady, who keeps rule in the nursery, that there is no possi-
