Your mother's form too, clear and distinct, comes upon the wave of your
rocking thought; her smile touches you now in age as it never touched
you in boyhood.
The image of that fair Miss Dalton, who led your fancy into such mad
captivity, glides across your vision like the fragment of a crazy dream
long gone by. The country home, where lived the grandfather of Frank,
gleams kindly in the sunlight of your memory; and still,--poor, blind
Fanny--long since gathered to that rest where her closed eyes will open
upon visions of joy--draws forth a sigh of pity.
Then comes up that sweetest and brightest vision of love, and the doubt
and care which ran before it,--when your hope groped eagerly through
your pride and worldliness toward the sainted purity of her whom you
know to be--all too good,--when you trembled at the thought of your own
vices and blackness in the presence of her who seemed virtue's self. And
even now your old heart bounds with joy as you recall the first timid
assurance that you were blessed in the possession of her love, and that
you might live in her smiles.
Your thought runs like floating melody over the calm joy that followed
you through so many years,--to the prattling children, who were there to
bless your path.
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