* * * * *
The sun shines warmly without, and through the open casement beats
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.
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