You drive over with her upon that morning
for another look at the old place; a cloud touches her brow,--but she
yields to your wish. An old servant--whom you had known in better
days--throws open the gates.
----"It is too, too sad," says Madge. "Let us go back, Clarence, to our
own home;--we are happy there."
----"A little farther, Madge."
The wife steps slowly over what seems the sepulchre of so many
pleasures; the children gambol as of old, and pick flowers. But the
mother checks them.
"They are not ours now, my children!"
You stroll to the very door; the goldfinches are hanging upon the wall;
the mignonette is in the window. You feel the hand of Madge trembling
upon your arm; she is struggling with her weakness.
A tidy waiting-woman shows you into the old parlor:--there is a harp;
and there, too, such books as we loved to read.
Madge is overcome; now she entreats:--"Let us go away, Clarence!" and
she hides her face.
----"Never, dear Madge, never! it is yours--all yours!"
She looks up in your face; she sees your look of triumph; she catches
sight of Frank bursting in at the old hall-door all radiant with joy.
----"Frank!--Clarence!"--the tears forbid any more.
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