July 25

The child shall die a hundred years old.

BEHIND grey hairs and furrowed brow And withered look that life puts on,

Each, as he wears it, comes to know

How the child hides, and is not gone.

For while the inexorable years

To sadden'd features fix their mold,

Beneath the work of time and tears

Waits something that will not grow old.

Though many a storm-blast, fiercely sent,

And wasted hope, and sinful stain,

Roughen the strange integument

The struggling soul must wear in pain.

Yet, when she comes to claim her own,

Heaven's angels haply shall not ask

For that last look the world hath known,—

But for the face behind the mask.

ADELINE

D. TRAIN

WHITNEY

THE INDWELLER