"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. ’ ‘Do you indeed?’ rejoined the old lady, twinkling at him, and urging him towards the door. “Dear me! I wonder what I ought to do. It would be an ice storm by midnight if it did not let up. The ripple of the water against the boat, as its keel cleaves through the stream—the darkling current hurrying by—the indistinctly-seen craft, of all forms and all sizes, hovering around, and making their way in ghostlike silence, or warning each other of their approach by cries, that, heard from afar, have something doleful in their note—the solemn shadows cast by the bridges—the deeper gloom of the echoing arches—the lights glimmering from the banks—the red reflection thrown upon the waves by a fire kindled on some stationary barge—the tall and fantastic shapes of the houses, as discerned through the obscurity;—these, and other sights and sounds of the same character, give a sombre colour to the thoughts of one who may choose to indulge in meditation at such a time and in such a place. Sweet sixteen year old Shari, who never once figured out the morning sleep hangovers she suffered monthly. At last—I told a story. “Now, there, there.
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