flowers, such as I used to pick when a child. I had broken off a few,
and was stooping for more, when some one near said, "Good morning,
Captain Joseph!"

It was Mrs. Maylie, the minister's wife, going home from watching. After
a little talk, she told me, in her pleasant way, that I had two things
to do, of which, by the doing, I should make but one: I was to write a
story, and to show good reason for keeping myself all to myself.

"Mrs. Maylie," said I, "do I look like a person who has had a story? I
am a lonely old man,--a hard old man. A story should have warmth. Don't
you see I'm an icicle?"

"Not quite," said she. "I know of two warm spots. I see you every day
watching the children go past; and then, what have you there? Icicles
never cling to flowers!"

After she had gone, I began thinking what a beautiful story mine might
have been, if things had been different,--if I had been different. And
at last it occurred to me that a relation of some parts of it might be
useful reading for young men; also, that it might cause our whole class
to be more kindly looked upon.

Suppose it is not a pleasant story. Life is not all brightness. See how
the shadows chase each other across our path! To-day our friend weeps
with us; to-morrow we weep with our friend. The hearse is a carriage
which stops at every door.

No picture is without its shading. We have before us the happy
experiences of my two friends. By those smiling groups let there stand