It is very late, and that couplet of the dead still rings in my
brain,--
"Christmas comes,
Christmas goes;
But soon we all shall be of those
Who come back--never!"
"Yes, yes; other Christmas Eves will come," thought I, as a child;
and I dreamed of the future and built castles in the air. I saw
myself the centre of a family, as yet unborn, in the second twilight
of life when the flowers of love come to fruit. That storm of love
and tears which wrecks me now was passed; my head was at rest in the
lap of patience, crowned with the melancholy flowers of the last,
true affections. I was a husband, a father, the support of a home, of
a family.
The flame of an unknown hearth sparkled in the distance, and in its
vacillating light I saw strange beings that made me throb with pride;
they were my sons. Then I wept, and I closed my eyes to prolong the
vision of that reddish light and the prophetic apparition of the
unborn. The grave was near; my locks were gray. But what of that?
Would not half of my life remain in these children of love? Would
not half of my soul remain with their mother? In vain did I try to
recognize this wife, who was to share the twilight of my life. This
future companion whom God holds for me sat with her back to me. I
could not see her face. I looked for the reflection of her features
in the faces of my sons, but the light from the hearth began to fail.
When it was out I still saw her, because I felt the warmth of her in
my soul. I murmured:
"Christmas comes,
Christmas--"
And I was asleep, perhaps dead.
[Illustration]