It died away at last,--and then I heard the opening of a door, followed by a low, monotonous sound, as of one talking,--and then the closing of a door,--and presently the light on the opposite wall disappeared and all was still for the night.
By George! this gets interesting,--I said, as I got out of bed for a change of night-clothes.
I had this in my pocket the other day, but thought I would n't read it at our celebration.

So I read it to the boarders instead, and print it to finish off this record with.
ROBINSON OF LEYDEN.
He sleeps not here; in hope and prayer His wandering flock had gone before, But he, the shepherd, might not share Their sorrows on the wintry shore.
Before the Speedwell's anchor swung, Ere yet the Mayflower's sail was spread, While round his feet the Pilgrims clung, The pastor spake, and thus he said:-- "Men, brethren, sisters, children dear! God calls you hence from over sea; Ye may not build by Haerlem Meer, Nor yet along the Zuyder-Zee.
"Ye go to bear the saving word To tribes unnamed and shores untrod: Heed well the lessons ye have heard From those old teachers taught of God.
"Yet think not unto them was lent All light for all the coming days, And Heaven's eternal wisdom spent In making straight the ancient ways.
"The living fountain overflows For every flock, for every lamb, Nor heeds, though angry creeds oppose With Luther's dike or Calvin's dam." He spake; with lingering, long embrace, With tears of love and partings fond, They floated down the creeping Maas, Along the isle of Ysselmond.
They passed the frowning towers of Briel, The "Hook of Holland's" shelf of sand, And grated soon with lifting keel The sullen shores of Fatherland.
No home for these!--too well they knew The mitred king behind the throne; The sails were set, the pennons flew, And westward ho! for worlds unknown.
-- And these were they who gave us birth, The Pilgrims of the sunset wave, Who won for us this virgin earth, And freedom with the soil they gave.
The pastor slumbers by the Rhine, -- In alien earth the exiles lie, -- Their nameless graves our holiest shrine, His words our noblest battle-cry! Still cry them, and the world shall hear, Ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea! Ye have not built by Haerlem Meer, Nor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee! VIII There has been a sort of stillness in the atmosphere of our boarding-house since my last record, as if something or other were going on.

There is no particular change that I can think of in the aspect of things; yet I have a feeling as if some game of life were quietly playing and strange forces were at work, underneath this smooth surface of every-day boardinghouse life, which would show themselves some fine morning or other in events, if not in catastrophes.

I have been watchful, as I said I should be, but have little to tell as yet.

You may laugh at me, and very likely think me foolishly fanciful to trouble myself about what is going on in a middling-class household like ours.
Do as you like.