MRS. GRAY'S THANKSGIVING DINNER.
Oh, I love an old-fashioned thanksgiving,
When the crops are all safe in the barn;
When the chickens are plump with good living,
And the wool is all spun into yarn.
It is pleasant to draw round the table,
When uncles and cousins are there,
And grandpa, who scarcely is able,
Sits down in his old oaken chair!
It is pleasant to wait for the blessing,
With a heart free from malice and strife,
While a turkey, that's portly with dressing,
Lies, meekly awaiting the knife.
Amid all the varieties of architecture--Grecian, Gothic, Swiss, Chinese,
and even Egyptian, to be met with on Long Island, there yet may be found
some genuine old farms, with barns instead of carriage-houses, and cow
sheds in the place of pony stables. To these old houses are still
attached generous gardens, hedged in with picket fences, and teeming
with vegetables, and front yards full of old-fashioned shrubbery, with
thick grass half a century old mossing them over. These things,
primitive, and full of the olden times, are not yet crowded out of sight
by sloping lawns, gravel walks, and newly acclimated flowers; and if
they do not so vividly appeal to the taste, those, who have hearts,
sometimes find them softened by these relicts of the past, to warmer and
sweeter feelings than mere fancy ever aroused.
One of these old houses, a low roofed, unpretending dwelling, exhibiting
unmistakable evidence of what had once been white paint on the edges of
its clap-boards, and crowned by a huge stone chimney, whose generous
throat seemed half choked up with swallows' nests, belonged to a
character in our story which the reader cannot have forgotten without
breaking the author's heart.
It was autumn--but a generous, balmy autumn, that seemed to cajole and
flatter the summer into keeping it company close up to Christmas. True,
the gorgeous tints of a late Indian summer lay richly among the trees,
but some patches of bright green were still left, defying the season,
and putting aside, from day to day, the red and golden veil which the
frost was constantly endeavoring to cast over them.
In front of the old house stood two maples--noble trees, such as have
had no time to root themselves around your modern cottages. These
maples, symmetrical as a pair of huge pine cones, rose against the house
a perfect cloud of gorgeous foliage. One was red as blood, and with a
dash of the most vivid green still keeping its hold down the centre of
each leaf--the other golden all over, as if its roots were nourished in
the metallic soil of California, and its leaves dusted by the winds that
drift up gold in the valley of Sacramento. These superb trees blended
and wove their ripe leaves together, now throwing out a wave of red, now
a mass of gold, and here a tinge of green in splendid confusion.
All around, under these maples, the grass was littered with a fantastic
carpet of leaves, showered down from their branches. They hung around
the huge old lilac bushes. They fluttered down to the rose thickets, and
lay in patches of torn crimson and crumpled gold among the house-leeks
and mosses on the roof.
In and out, through this shower of ripe leaves, fluttered the swallows.
In and out along the heavy branches, darted a pair of red squirrels, who
owned a nest in one of the oldest and most stately trees. In and out,
through the long, low kitchen, the parlor, the pantries, and the
milk-room, went and came our old friend, Mrs. Gray, the comely
huckster-woman of Fulton market. That house was hers. That great square
garden at the back door was hers. How comfortable and harvest-like it
lay, sloping down toward the south, divided into sections, crowded with
parsnips, beets, onions, potatoes, raspberry thickets, and strawberry
patches; in short, running over with a stock in trade that had furnished
her market stall during the year.
The season was late. The frost had been there nipping, biting and
pinching up the noble growth of vegetables that was to supply Mrs.
Gray's stall in the winter months. Half the great white onions lay above
ground, with their silvery coats exposed. The beet beds were of a deep
blackish crimson; and the cucumber vines had yielded up their last
delicate gherkins. All her neighbors had gathered in their crops days
ago, but the good old lady only laughed and chuckled over the example
thus offered for her imitation. New England born and accustomed to the
sharp east winds of Maine, she cared nothing for the petty frosts that
only made the leaves of her beet and parsnip beds gorgeous, while their
precious bulbs lay safely bedded in the soil. No matter what others did,
she never gathered her garden crop till Thanksgiving. That was her
harvest time, her great yearly jubilee--the season when her accounts
were reckoned up--when her barns and cellars were running over with the
wealth of her little farm.
Christmas, New Year, the Fourth of July, in short, all the holidays of
the year were crowded into one with Mrs. Gray. During the whole twelve
months, she commemorated Thanksgiving only. The reader must not, for a
moment, suppose that the Thanksgiving Mrs. Gray loved to honor, was the
miserable counterfeit of a holiday proclaimed by the governor of New
York. No! Mrs. Gray scorned this poor attempt at imitation. It made her
double chin quiver only to think of it. If ever a look of contempt crept
into those benevolent eyes, it was when people would try to convince her
that any governor out of New England, could enter into the spirit of a
regular Down East Thanksgiving; or, that any woman, south of old
Connecticut, could be educated into the culinary mysteries of a mince
pie. Her faith was boundless, her benevolence great, but in these things
Mrs. Gray could not force herself to believe.
You should have seen the old lady as Thanksgiving week drew near--not
the New York one, but that solemnly proclaimed by the governor of Maine.
Mrs. Gray heeded no other. That week the woman of a neighboring stall
took charge of Mrs. Gray's business. The customers were served by a
strange hand; the brightness of her comely face was confined to her own
roof tree. She gave thanks to God for the bounties of the earth,
heartily, earnestly; but it was her pleasure to render these thanks
after the fashion of her ancestors.
You should have seen her then, surrounded by raisins, black currants,
pumpkin sauce, peeled apples, sugar boxes, and plates of golden butter,
her plump hand pearly with flour dust, the whole kitchen redolent with
ginger, allspice, and cloves! You should have seen her grating orange
peel and nutmegs, the border of her snow-white cap rising and falling to
the motion of her hands, and the soft gray hair underneath, tucked
hurriedly back of the ear on one side, where it had threatened to be in
the way.
You should have seen her in that large, splint-bottomed rocking-chair,
with a wooden bowl in her capacious lap, and a sharp chopping-knife in
her right hand; with what a soft, easy motion the chopping-knife fell!
with what a quiet and smiling air the dear old lady would take up a
quantity of the powdered beef on the flat of her knife, and observe, as
it showered softly down to the tray again, that "meat chopped too fine
for mince pies was sure poison." Then the laugh--the quiet, mellow
chuckle with which she regarded the astonished look of the Irish girl,
who could not understand the mystery of this ancient saying.
Yes, you should have seen Mrs. Gray at this very time, in order to
appreciate fully the perfections of an old-fashioned New England
housewife. They are departing from the land. Railroads and steamboats
are sweeping them away. In a little time, providing our humble tale is
not first sent to oblivion, this very description will have the dignity
of an antique subject. Women who cook their own dinners and take care of
the work hands are getting to be legendary even now.
The day came at last, bland as the smile of a warm heart, a breath of
summer seemed whispering with the over-ripe leaves. The sunshine was of
that warm, golden yellow which belongs to the autumn. A few hardy
flowers glowed in the front yard, richly tinted dahlias, marigolds,
chrysanthemums, and China-asters, with the most velvety amaranths, still
kept their bloom, for those huge old maples sheltered them like a tent,
and flowers always blossomed later in that house than elsewhere. No
wonder! Inside and out, all was pleasant and genial. The fall flowers
seemed to thrive upon Mrs. Gray's smiles. Her rosy countenance, as she
overlooked them, seemed to warm up their leaves like a sunbeam.
Everything grew and brightened about her. Everything combined to make
this particular Thanksgiving one to be remembered.
Now, all was in fine progress, nothing had gone wrong, not even the
awkward Irish girl, for she had only to see that the potatoes were in
readiness, and for that department she was qualified by birth.
Mrs. Gray had done wonders that morning. The dinner was in a most
hopeful state of preparation. The great red crested, imperious looking
turkey, that had strutted away his brief life in the barn-yard, was now
snugly bestowed in the oven--Mrs. Gray had not yet degenerated down to a
cooking-stove--his heavy coat of feathers was scattered to the wind. His
head, that arrogant, crimson head, that had so often awed the whole
poultry yard, lay all unheeded in the dust, close by the horse-block.
There he sat, the poor denuded monarch--turned up in a dripping pan,
simmering himself brown in the kitchen oven. Never, in all his pomp, had
that bosom been so warmed and distended--yet the huge turkey had been a
sad gourmand in his time. A rich thymy odor broke through every pore of
his body; drops of luscious gravy dripped down his sides, filling the
oven with an unctuous stream that penetrated a crevice in the door, and
made the poor Irish girl cross herself devoutly. She felt her spirit so
yearning after the good things of earth, and never having seen
Thanksgiving set down in the calendar, was shy of surrendering her
heart to a holiday that had no saint to patronize it.
No wonder! the odor that stole so insidiously to her nostrils was
appetising, for the turkey had plenty of companionship in the oven. A
noble chicken-pie flanked his dripping pan on the right; a delicate
sucking pig was drawn up to the left wing; in the rear towered a
mountain of roast beef, while the mouth of the oven was choked up with a
generous Indian pudding. It was an ovenful worthy of New England, worthy
of the day.
The hours came creeping on when guests might be expected. Mrs. Gray, who
had been invisible a short time after filling the oven, appeared in the
little parlor perfectly redolent with good humor, and a fresh toilet. A
cap of the most delicate material, trimmed with satin ribbons, cast a
transparent brightness over her bland and pleasant features. A dress of
black silk, heavy and ample in the skirt, rustled round her portly
figure as she walked. Folds of the finest muslin lay upon her bosom, in
chaste contrast with the black dress, and just revealing a string of
gold beads which had reposed for years beneath the caressing protection
of her double chin.
Mrs. Gray, was ready for company, and tried her best to remain with
proper dignity in the great rocking chair, that she had drawn to a
window commanding a long stretch of the road; but every few moments she
would start up, bustle across the room, and charge Kitty, the Irish
girl, to be careful and watch the oven, to keep a sharp eye on the
sauce-pans in the fire-place, and, above all, to have the mince pies
within range of the fire, that they might receive a gradual and gentle
warmth by the time they were wanted. Then she would return to the room,
arrange the branches of asparagus that hung laden with red berries over
the looking glass, or dust the spotless table with her handkerchief,
just to keep herself busy, as she said.
At last she heard the distant sound of a wagon, turning down the cross
road toward the house. She knew the tramp of her own market horse even
at that distance, and seated herself by the window ready to receive her
expected guests with becoming dignity.
The little one-horse wagon came down the road with a sort of dash quite
honorable to the occasion. Mrs. Gray's hired man was beginning to enter
into the spirit of a holiday; and the old horse himself made every thing
rattle again, he was so eager to reach home, the moment it hove in
sight.
The wagon drew up by the door yard gate with a flourish worthy of the
Third avenue. The hired man sprang out, and with some show of awkward
gallantry, lifted a young girl in a pretty pink calico and a cottage
bonnet, down from the front seat. Mrs. Gray could maintain her position
no longer; for the young girl glanced that way with a look so eloquent,
a smile so bright, that it warmed the dear old lady's heart like a flash
of fire in the winter time. She started up, hastily shook loose the
folds of her dress, and went out, rustling all the way like a tree in
autumn.
"You are welcome, dear, welcome as green peas in June, or radishes in
March," she cried, seizing the little hand held toward her, and kissing
the heavenly young face.
The girl turned with a bright look, and making a graceful little wave of
the hand toward an aged man who was tenderly helping a female from the
wagon, seemed about to speak.
"I understand, dear, I know all about it! the good old people--grandpa
and grandma, of course. How could I help knowing them?" Mrs. Gray went
up to the old people as she spoke, with a bland welcome in every feature
of her face.
"Know them, of course I do!" she said, enfolding the old gentleman's
hand with her plump fingers. "I--I--gracious goodness, now, it really
does seem as if I had seen that face somewhere!" she added, hesitating,
and with her eyes fixed doubtingly on the stranger, as if she were
calling up some vague remembrance, "strange, now isn't it? but he looks
natural as life."
The old man turned a warming glance toward his wife, and then answered,
with a grave smile, "that, at any rate, Mrs. Gray could never be a
stranger to them, she who had done so much----"
She interrupted him with one of her mellow laughs. Thanks for a kind
act always made the good woman feel awkward, and she blushed like a
girl. "No, no; but somehow I can't give it up; this isn't the first time
we have seen each other!"
"I hope that it will not be the last!" said old Mrs. Warren, coming
gently forward to her husband's assistance. "Julia has seen you so
often, and talked of you so much--no wonder we seem like old
acquaintances. I always thought Julia looked very much like her
grandfather!"
"Yes, I reckon it must be that," answered Mrs. Gray, evidently but half
giving up her prepossession. "Her face isn't one to leave the mind: I
dreamed about it the first night after she came into the market, poor
thing--poor thing!"
Mrs. Gray repeated the last words with great tenderness, for Julia
Warren had crept close to her, and taking one of her hands, softly
lifted it to her lips.
"Come, come, let us go in," cried the good woman, gently withdrawing her
hand, with which she patted Julia on the shoulder. "There, there, pick
your grandmother a handful of China-asters. I believe the frost left
them just for you."
Julia was about to obey the welcome command, but her glance happened to
fall on the face of her grandfather, and she hesitated. There was
something troubled in his look, an expression of anxiety that struck her
as remarkable.
"Grandpa, what is the matter?--you look pale!" she said, in a low voice,
for, with delicate tact, she saw he wished to escape observation.
"Nothing, child, nothing," he answered hurriedly, but with kindness. "Do
not mind me."
Julia cast one more anxious look into his face, and then stooped to the
flowers. The old gentleman followed Mrs. Gray and his wife into the
house.
"A sweet, pretty creature, isn't she?" said Mrs. Gray, watching Julia
from the parlor window, after she had put aside Mrs. Warren's things;
"and handsome as a picture! Just watch her now as she turns her face
this way."
"You are kind to praise her," said Mrs. Warren, with a gentle smile;
"you know how much it pleases us."
Mrs. Gray laughed and shook her head. "I know how much it pleases me,
and that's all I think about it," she answered; and the two warm-hearted
women stood together watching Julia as she gathered and arranged her
humble bouquet.
The child did indeed look very lovely in her pink dress--only a shilling
calico, but fresh and becoming for all that. You never saw a more
interesting picture in your life. The long ringlets of her hair swept
from underneath her bonnet, while its delicate rose-colored tinge and
the ride had given her cheek a bloom fresh as an almond flower when it
first opens. Still she was a slender, fragile little creature, and you
saw that the rude winds of life had swept too early over her. Feeling
and intellect had prematurely developed themselves in her nature. In her
face--in her smile--in her eyes, with their beautiful curling lashes,
there was something painfully spiritual. Within the last few months this
expression had grown upon her wonderfully. Her loveliness was of a kind
to make you thoughtful, sometimes even sad. Mrs. Gray felt all this
without understanding it, and her heart yearned strangely toward the
child.
"It's a truth," she said, addressing the grandmother. "I feel almost as
if she were my own daughter, and yet I never had a child, and didn't use
to care for other people's children much. I really believe that some day
I shall up and give her these. It's come into my mind more than once, I
can tell you, and yet they were my mother's, and her mother's before
that." Here Mrs. Gray ran her fingers along the gold beads on her neck.
"It's strange, but I always want to be giving her something."
"You _are_ always giving her something," said Mrs. Warren, gratefully.
"No, no, nothing to speak of."
"That pretty dress and the bonnet--are they nothing?"
"And who told you that?--who told you they came from me?"
"We have not so many friends that there could be much doubt," answered
Mrs. Warren, with a sigh. "Julia was sure of it from the first; and the
other things!" continued the old lady, in a low voice, glancing at her
own neat dress, "who else would have thought of them?"
All truly benevolent persons shrink from spoken thanks. The gratitude
expressed by looks and actions may give pleasure, but there is something
too material in words--they destroy all the refinement of a generous
action. Good Mrs. Gray felt this the more sensitively, because her own
words had seemed to challenge the thanks of her guest. The color came
into her smooth cheek, and she began to arrange the folds of her dress
with both hands, exhibiting a degree of awkwardness quite unusual to
her. When she lifted her eyes again, they fell upon a young man coming
down the cross road on foot, with an eager and buoyant step.
"There he comes, I thought he would not be long on the way," she cried,
while a flash of gladness radiated her face. "It's my nephew; you see
him there, Mrs. Warren--no, the maple branch is in the way! Here he is
again--now look! a noble fellow, isn't he?"
Mrs. Warren looked, and was indeed struck by the free air and superior
appearance of the youth. He had evidently walked some distance, for a
light over-sacque hung across his arm, and his face was flushed with
exercise. Seeing his aunt, the boy waved his hand; his lips parted in a
joyous smile, and he hastened his pace almost to a run.
Mrs. Gray's little brown eyes glistened; she could not turn them from
the youth, even while addressing her guest.
"Isn't he handsome?--not like your girl, but handsome for a boy," she
exclaimed with fond enthusiasm, "and good--you have no idea, ma'am,
_how_ good he is. There, that is just like him, the wild creature!" she
continued, as the youth laid one hand upon the door yard fence, and
vaulted over, "right into my flower-beds, trampling over the grass
there--did you ever?"
"Couldn't help it, Aunt Sarah," shouted the youth, with a careless
laugh, "I'm in a hurry to get home, and the gate is too far off. Three
kisses for every flower I tramp down--will that do? Ha, what little lady
is this?"
The last exclamation was drawn forth by Julia Warren, who had seated
herself at the root of the largest maple, and with her lap full of
flowers, was arranging them into bouquets. On hearing Robert's voice she
looked up with a glance of pleasant surprise, and a smile broke over her
lips. There was something so rosy and joyous in his face, and in the
tones of his voice, that it rippled through her heart as if a bird
overhead had just broken into song. The youth looked upon her for a
moment with his bright, gleeful eyes, then, throwing off his hat and
sweeping back the damp chestnut curls from his forehead, he sat down by
her side, and cast a glance of laughing defiance at his relative.
"Come out here and get the kisses, Aunt Sarah, I have made up my mind to
stay among the flowers!"
Mrs. Gray laughed at the young rogue's impudence, as she called it, and
came out to meet him.
"Now this is too bad," exclaimed the youth, starting up: "don't box my
ears, aunt, and besides paying the kisses, I will embrace you
dutifully--upon my life I will--that is if my arms are long enough," and
with every appearance of honest affection, the youth cast one arm around
the portly person of his aunt, and pressed a warm kiss on her cheek.
"You are welcome home, Robert, always welcome; and I wish you a happy
Thanksgiving with my whole heart. Julia dear, this is my nephew, Mr.
Robert Otis. His mother and I were sisters--only sisters; there were
three of us in all, two daughters and a son. He is the only child among
us, that is the reason I spoil him so."
Julia, who had just recovered from the blush that crimsoned her cheek at
his first approach, came forward and extended her hand to the youth
with a timid and gentle grace, that seemed too composed for her years.
"And Miss Julia Warren, who is she, dear aunt?" questioned the youth, in
a half whisper, as the girl moved toward the house, holding the loose
flowers to her bosom with one hand.
"The dearest and best little girl that ever lived, Robert; that is all I
know about her!" was the earnest reply.
"And enough, who wants to know any more about any one," returned the
youth; "and yet Mr. Leicester would say that something else is wanting
before we invite strangers to eat Thanksgiving dinners with us. _He_
would say that all this is imprudent."
"Mr. Leicester is very wise, I dare say, and I am but a simple old
woman, Robert; but somehow that which seems right for me to do always
turns out for the best."
"Because what seems right to the good always is best, my darling old
aunt. I only wanted to prove how prudent and wise a city life has made
me."
"Prudent and wise--don't set up for that character, Bob. These things
never did run in our family, and never will. Just content yourself with
being good and happy as you can!"
All at once Robert became grave. Some serious thought seemed pressing
upon his mind.
"I always was happy when you were my only adviser," he said, looking in
her face with a thoughtful sort of gloom.
"Now don't, Robert, don't joke with your old aunt. One would think by
your looks that there was something in it. I'm sure it would break my
heart to think you unhappy in earnest!"
"I know it would!" answered the affectionate youth, casting aside his
momentary depression. "Just box my ears for teasing you, and let us go
in--I must help the little girl tie up her flowers."
Mrs. Gray seemed about to press the conversation a little more
earnestly; but that moment the Irish girl came through the front door
with an expression of solemn import in her face. She whispered in a
flustered manner to her mistress, and the words "spoilt entirely,"
reached Robert's ear.
Away went the aunt all in a state of excitement to the kitchen. The
nephew watched her depart, and then turning thoughtfully back, begun to
pace up and down the footpath leading from the front door to the gate.
The first wild flash of spirits consequent on a return home had left
him, and from that time the joyousness of his look grew dim. He was gay
only by starts, and at times fell into thought that seemed unnatural to
his youth, and his usual merry spirit.
Whatever mischief had happened in the kitchen, the dinner turned out
magnificently. The turkey came upon the table a perfect miracle of
cookery. The pig absolutely looked more beautiful than life, crouching
in his bed of parsely, with his head up, and holding a lemon daintily
between his jaws. The chicken-pie, pinched around the edge into a
perfect embroidery by the two plump thumbs of Mrs. Gray, and then
finished off by an elaborate border done in key work, would have charmed
the most fastidious artist.
You have no idea, reader mine, how beautiful colors may be blended on a
dinner-table, unless you have seen just the kind of feast to which Mrs.
Gray invited her guests. The rich brown of the meats; the snow white
bread; the fresh, golden butter; the cranberry sauce, with its bright,
ruby tinge, were daintily mingled with plates of pies, arranged after a
most tempting fashion. Golden custard; the deep red tart; the brown
mince and tawny orange color of the pumpkin, were placed in alternate
wedges, and radiating from the centre of each plate like a star, stood
at equal distances round the table. Water sparkling from the well;
currant wine brilliantly red--contrasted with the sheeted snow of the
table-cloth; and the gleam of crystal; then that old arm-chair at the
head of the table, with its soft crimson cushions. I tell you again,
reader, it was a Thanksgiving dinner worthy to be remembered. That poor
family from the miserable basement in New York, did remember it for many
a weary day after. Mrs. Gray remembered it, for she had given delicious
pleasure to those old people. She had, for that one day at least, lifted
them from their toil and depression. Besides, the good woman had other
cause to remember the day, and that before she closed her eyes in sleep.
Robert too. In his heart there lingered a remembrance of this dinner
long after such things are usually forgotten. And Julia! even with her
it was an epoch, a mile-stone in the path of her life--a mile-stone
wreathed with blossoms, to which in after days she loved to wander back
in her imagination, as pilgrims journey to visit a shrine.
When old Mr. Warren took the great crimson easy-chair at the head of the
table, and folding his hands earnestly and solemnly, asked a blessing on
the food, Mrs. Gray could not forbear stealing another, and more
searching glance at his face. She could not be mistaken, somewhere those
features had met her eye before; it might be years ago, she could not
fix the time or place, but she had seen that forehead and heard the
voice--of that she became certain.
I will not dwell upon that dinner--the warm, almost too warm
hospitality! No wine was wanted to keep up the general cheerfulness; the
sparkle of champagne; the dash of crystals; the gush of song were all
unnecessary there.
Everything was fresh, earnest, and full of pure enjoyment; even old Mr.
Warren smiled happily more than once; and as for Robert, he was
perfectly brilliant during the whole meal, saying the drollest things to
his aunt, and making Julia laugh every other minute with his sparkling
nonsense.
There was one thing that, for a moment, cast a shadow upon the general
hilarity. By the great easy-chair occupied by Mr. Warren, stood an empty
seat; a plate, knife, and glass was before it; but when Mr. Warren asked
if any other guest was expected, a profound sigh arose from the recesses
of Mrs. Gray's bosom, and she answered sadly that one guest was always
expected on Thanksgiving day, but he never came. All the company saw
that this was a painful subject, and no more questions were asked; but
after dinner, when Robert and Julia were under the old maples, he told
her in a low voice that this seat was always kept standing for an uncle
of his--Mrs. Gray's only brother--who left home when a youth, and had
been a wanderer ever since. For him this empty seat was ever in
readiness.
Mrs. Gray, with all her good common sense, had a dash of romance buried
deep somewhere in her capacious bosom. It was an old-fashioned, hearty
sort of romance, giving depth and vigor to her affections; people might
smile at it, but what then? It beautified, and gave wholesome refinement
to a character which required something of this kind to tone down its
energies, and soften even its best impulses.
Thanksgiving, in New England, is a holiday of the hearth-stone, a yearly
Sabbath, where friends that are scattered meet with a punctuality that
seems almost religious. It is a season of little, pleasant surprises;
unexpected friends often drop in to partake of the festival. It was not
very singular, considering all these things, that good Mrs. Gray should
have cherished a fancy, as each of these festive holidays came round,
that her long absent brother might return to claim his seat at her
table. They were orphans--and her home was all that he could claim in
his native land. She did hope--and there was something almost of
religious faith in the idea--that some day her only brother would
surprise them with his presence.
And now the day was over, the landmark of another year was planted, her
guests had departed, and Mrs. Gray sat down in her little parlor alone.
There was something melancholy in the solitude to which she was left.
Every footfall of the old market horse as he bore away those whom she
had made so happy, seemed to trample out a sweet hope from her heart.
There stood the chair--empty, empty, empty--her brother, her only
brother, would he never come again? As these thoughts stole through her
mind, Mrs. Gray folded her arms, and, leaning back in the old arm-chair
that had been her father's, wept, but so gently that one sitting by her
would hardly have been aware of it.