'" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. "My enemy," replied her son. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision.
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