call time!—which is, and which is not; a moment of which can seem like an eternity of pain! an eternity of which can seem too short for a moment of joy?
Some weeks after Dr. Miller's departure I observed, one morning at breakfast, that Ally was unusually grave.
"What is it Ally? What are you thinking about?" said I.
"Stonie," she replied, in a sad voice.
"Do you want him back? I was afraid you would," said Jim
"Oh, no, brother Jim. It is n't that;" and the child's lip trembled.
"What is it, then? Do tell me, dear," exclaimed Jim, his face full of trouble, as it always was at sight of an instant's unhappiness on Ally's.
"I can't," said Ally; "I don't know. It 's Stonie. When will Dr. Miller come home?"
"Why, not for three weeks yet, Ally," replied Jim; "but he has n't got Stonie now. Stonie 's safe in a great big box on high legs, with a glass cover to it, by this time." And he tried to divert her mind by telling her about the college cabinets. She listened absently, and at last shaking her head, and saying, "Stonie is n't there," she slipped from Jim's lap and walked slowly away.
That night there came a letter to Jim in a hand writing he did not know. He glanced at the signature, and exclaimed:—
