one dark, solitary figure, pointing out the moral of the whole.

There is one thing, however, in the story of my neighbor Browne,
pleasant as it is, which reminds me of a habit of my own. I mean, his
liking to watch pretty faces. I do, when they belong to children.

This practice of mine, which I find has been noticed by my valued
friend, Mrs. Maylie, is partly owing to the memories of my own
childhood.

When the past was so suddenly recalled, on that stormy day,--as
mentioned by my friend Allen,--I felt as I have often felt upon the sea,
when, after hours of dull sailing, through mist and darkness, I have
looked back upon the lights of the town we were leaving.

My life began in brightness. And now, amid that brightness, appear
fresh, happy little faces, which haunt me more and more, as I become
isolated from the humanity about me, until at times it is those only
which are real, while living forms seem but shadows.

I see whole rows of these young faces in an old school-house, far from
here, close by the sea,--can see the little girls running in, when the
schoolma'am knocked, and settling down in their forms, panting for
breath.

One of these the boys called my girl. I liked her, because she had curls
and two rows of cunning teeth, and because she never laughed when the
boys called me "Spunky Joe." For I was wilful, and of a hasty temper.
Her name was Margaret. My father took me a long voyage with him, and
while I was gone she moved down East. I never saw her afterwards. If