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.
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