The boys, whom you
astounded with your stories of books, are gone, building up now with
steady industry the queen cities of our new western land. The old
clergyman is gone from the desk, and from under his sounding board; he
sleeps beneath a brown stone slab in the churchyard. The stout deacon is
dead; his wig and his wickedness rest together. The tall chorister sings
yet; but they have now a bass-viol--handled by a new schoolmaster--in
place of his tuning-fork; and the years have sown feeble quavers in his
voice.
Once more you meet at the home of Nelly the blue-eyed Madge. The
sixpence is all forgotten; you cannot tell where your half of it is
gone. Yet she is beautiful, just budding into the full ripeness of
womanhood. Her eyes have a quiet, still joy, and hope beaming in them,
like angel's looks. Her motions have a native grace and freedom that no
culture can bestow. Her words have a gentle earnestness and honesty that
could never nurture guile.
You had thought after your gay experiences of the world to meet her with
a kind condescension, as an old friend of Nelly's. But there is that in
her eye which forbids all thought of condescension.
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