Thornton, the clergyman, whose prayer over the dead has dwelt with you, comes from time to time to light up your solitary hearth with his talk of the Rest for all men. He is young, but his earnest and gentle speech win their way to your heart, and to your understanding. You love his counsels; you make of him a friend, whose visits are long and often repeated.
Frank only lingers for a while; and you bid him again--adieu. It seems to you that it may well be the last; and your blessing trembles on your lip. Yet you look not with dread, but rather with a firm trustfulness toward the day of the end. For your darling Madge, it is true, you have anxieties; you fear to leave her lonely in the world with no protector save the wayward Frank.
It is later August when you call to Madge one day to bring you the little _escritoire_, in which are your cherished papers; among them is your last will and testament. Thornton has just left you, and it seems to you that his repeated kindnesses are deserving of some substantial mark of your regard.
"Maggie," you say, "Mr. Thornton has been very kind to me."
"I mean to leave him here some little legacy, Maggie."
"He is not looking for such return, father."
"But he has been very kind, Madge; I must show him some strong token of my regard. What shall it be, Maggie?"
Madge hesitates,--Madge blushes,--Madge stoops to her father's ear as if the very walls might catch the secret of her heart;--"Would you give _me_ to him, father?"
"That I would never leave you, so long as you lived!"
----"My own dear Madge,--come to me,--kiss me! And you love him, Maggie?"
----"So like your mother,--the same figure,--the same true, honest heart! It shall be as you wish, dear Madge. Only you will not leave me in my old age,--eh, Maggie?"
----And there she leans upon his chair;--her arm around the old man's neck,--her other hand clasped in his,--and her eyes melting with tenderness as she gazes upon his aged face,--all radiant with joy and with hope!
A feeble old man, and a young lady who is just now blooming into the maturity of womanhood, are toiling up a gentle slope, where the spring sun lies warmly. The old man totters, though he leans heavily upon his cane; and he pants as he seats himself upon a mossy rock that crowns the summit of the slope. As he recovers breath, he draws the hand of the lady in his, and with a trembling eagerness he points out an old mansion that lies below under the shadow of tall sycamores; and he says,--feebly and brokenly,--"That is it, Maggie,--the old home--the sycamores--the garret--Charlie--Nelly"--