warmly upon the floor within. The birds sing in the joyousness of
full-robed summer; the drowsy hum of the bees, stealing sweets from the
honeysuckle that bowers the window, lulls the air to a gentle quiet. Her
breathing scarce breaks the summer stillness. Yet, she knows it is
nearly over. Madge, too,--with features saddened, yet struggling against
grief,--feels--that it is nearly over.
It is very hard to think it; how much harder to know it! But there is no
mistaking her look now--so placid, so gentle, so resigned! And her grasp
of your hand--so warm--so full of meaning!
----"Madge, Madge, must it be?" And a pleasant smile lights her eye; and
her grasp is warmer; and her look is--upward!
----"Must it--must it be, dear Madge?"--A holier smile,--loftier,--lit
up of angels, beams on her faded features. The hand relaxes its clasp,
and you cling to it faster--harder,--joined close to the frail wreck of
your love,--joined tightly--but oh, how far apart!
She is in Heaven;--and you, struggling against the grief of a lorn, old
man!
But sorrow, however great it be, must be subdued in the presence of a
child. Its fevered outbursts must be kept for those silent hours when no
young eyes are watching, and no young hearts will "catch the trick of
grief."
When the household is quiet and darkened,--when Madge is away from you,
and your boy Frank slumbering--as youth slumbers upon sorrow,--when you
are alone with God and the night,--in that room so long hallowed by her
presence, but now--deserted--silent,--then you may yield yourself to
such frenzy of tears as your strength will let you! And in your solitary
rambles through the churchyard you can loiter of a summer's noon over
_her_ fresh-made grave, and let your pent heart speak, and your spirit
lean toward the Rest where her love has led you!
Thornton, the clergyman, whose prayer over the dead has dwelt with you,
comes from time to time to light up your solitary hearth with his talk
of the Rest for all men. He is young, but his earnest and gentle speech
win their way to your heart, and to your understanding. You love his
counsels; you make of him a friend, whose visits are long and often
repeated.
Frank only lingers for a while; and you bid him again--adieu. It seems
to you that it may well be the last; and your blessing trembles on your
lip. Yet you look not with dread, but rather with a firm trustfulness
toward the day of the end. For your darling Madge, it is true, you have
anxieties; you fear to leave her lonely in the world with no protector
save the wayward Frank.
* * * * *
It is later August when you call to Madge one day to bring you the
little _escritoire_, in which are your cherished papers; among them is
your last will and testament. Thornton has just left you, and it seems
to you that his repeated kindnesses are deserving of some substantial
mark of your regard.
"Maggie," you say, "Mr. Thornton has been very kind to me."
"Very kind, father."
"I mean to leave him here some little legacy, Maggie."
"I would not, father."
"But Madge, my daughter!"
"He is not looking for such return, father."
"But he has been very kind, Madge; I must show him some strong token of
my regard. What shall it be, Maggie?"
Madge hesitates,--Madge blushes,--Madge stoops to her father's ear as if
the very walls might catch the secret of her heart;--"Would you give
_me_ to him, father?"
"But--my dear Madge--has he asked this?"
"Eight months ago, papa."
"And you told him"--
"That I would never leave you, so long as you lived!"
----"My own dear Madge,--come to me,--kiss me! And you love him,
Maggie?"
"With all my heart, sir."
----"So like your mother,--the same figure,--the same true, honest
heart! It shall be as you wish, dear Madge. Only you will not leave me
in my old age,--eh, Maggie?"
----"Never, father,--never."
* * * * *
----And there she leans upon his chair;--her arm around the old man's
neck,--her other hand clasped in his,--and her eyes melting with
tenderness as she gazes upon his aged face,--all radiant with joy and
with hope!
IV.
_The End of Dreams._
A feeble old man, and a young lady who is just now blooming into the
maturity of womanhood, are toiling up a gentle slope, where the spring
sun lies warmly. The old man totters, though he leans heavily upon his
cane; and he pants as he seats himself upon a mossy rock that crowns the
summit of the slope. As he recovers breath, he draws the hand of the
lady in his, and with a trembling eagerness he points out an old mansion
that lies below under the shadow of tall sycamores; and he says,--feebly
and brokenly,--"That is it, Maggie,--the old home--the sycamores--the
garret--Charlie--Nelly"--
The old man wipes his eyes. Then his hand shifts: he seems groping in
darkness; but soon it rests upon a little cottage below, heavily
overshadowed.
"That was it, Maggie;--Madge lived there--sweet Madge--your mother"--
Again the old man wipes his eyes, and the lady turns away.
Presently they walk down the hill together. They cross a little valley
with slow, faltering steps. The lady guides him carefully, until they
reach a little graveyard.
"This must be it, Maggie, but the fence is new. There it is, Maggie,
under the willow,--my poor mother's grave!"
The lady weeps.
"Thank you, Madge; you did not know her, but you weep for me. God bless
you!"
* * * * *
The old man is in the midst of his household. It is some festive day. He
holds feebly his place at the head of the board. He utters in feeble
tones--a Thanksgiving.
His married Nelly is there with two blooming children. Frank is there
with his bride. Madge--dearest of all--is seated beside the old man,
watchful of his comfort, and assisting him as with a shadowy dignity he
essays to do the honors of the board. The children prattle merrily: the
elder ones talk of the days gone by; and the old man enters feebly, yet
with floating glimpses of glee, into the cheer and the rejoicings.
----Poor old man, he is near his tomb! Yet his calm eye, looking
upward, seems to show no fear.
* * * * *
The same old man is in his chamber; he cannot leave his chair now. Madge
is beside him; Nelly is there too with her eldest-born. Madge has been
reading to the old man: it was a passage of promise--of the Bible
promise.
"A glorious promise!" says the old man, feebly;--"a promise to me,--a
promise to her, poor Madge!"
----"Is her picture there, Maggie?"
Madge brings it to him: he turns his head; but the light is not strong.
They wheel his chair to the window. The sun is shining brightly: still
the old man cannot see.
"It is getting dark, Maggie."
Madge looks at Nelly--wistfully--sadly.
The old man murmurs something; and Madge stoops.--"Coming," he
says,--"coming!"
Nelly brings the little child to take his hand. Perhaps it will revive
him. She lifts her boy to kiss his cheek.
The old man does not stir: his eyes do not move: they seem fixed above.
The child cries as his lips touch the cold cheek.--It is a tender Spring
flower upon the bosom of the dying WINTER!
* * * * *
----The old man is gone: his dream-life is ended.
THE END.