"Unwatcli'd the garden bough shall sway, The tender blossom flutter down, Unloved that beech will gather brown, The maple burn itself away ; Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, Eay round with flames her disk of seed, And many a rose-carnation feed With summer spice the humming air ;
Till from the garden and the wild A fresh association blow. And year by year the landscape grow Familiar to the stranger's child ; As year by year the labourer tills His wonted glebe, or lops the glades ; And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills." Tennyson.
The last day came ; tlie house was full of packing- cases, which were being carted off at the front door, to the nearest railway station. Even the pretty lawn at the side of the house, was made unsightly and untidy by the straw that had been wafted upon it through the open door and windows. The rooms had a strange echoing sound in them, — and the light came harshly and strongly- in through the