I put up no memorials." But I, thinking of my mother lying in her grave, a woman after God's own heart, who loved me more than I deserved, repeated almost unconsciously these lines (clipped from a magazine): "Sacred the ring, the faded glove, Once worn by one we used to love; Dead warriors in their armour live, And in their relics saints survive.
"Oh, Mother Earth, henceforth defend All thou hast garnered of my friend, From winter's wind and driving sleet, From summer's sun and scorching heat.
"Within thine all-embracing breast Is hid one more forsaken nest; While, in the sky, with folded wings, The bird that left it sits and sings." I paused; the occasion seemed so little suited to the sentiment, for around us was the idle excitement of leaving port.

I was annoyed with myself for my share in the conversation so far.

Mrs.Falchion's eyes had scarcely left that group around the captain's door, although she had appeared acutely interested in what I was saying.

Now she said: "You recite very well.

I feel impressed, but I fancy it is more your voice than those fine sentiments; for, after all, you cannot glorify the dead body.