The snows of many winter nights had melted
from that ground, the withered leaves of many summer times had
rustled there, since she had fled. The honey-suckle porch was
green again, the trees cast bountiful and changing shadows on the
grass, the landscape was as tranquil and serene as it had ever
been; but where was she!
Not there. Not there. She would have been a stranger sight in her
old home now, even than that home had been at first, without her.
But, a lady sat in the familiar place, from whose heart she had
never passed away; in whose true memory she lived, unchanging,
youthful, radiant with all promise and all hope; in whose affection
- and it was a mother's now, there was a cherished little daughter
playing by her side - she had no rival, no successor; upon whose
gentle lips her name was trembling then.
The spirit of the lost girl looked out of those eyes. Those eyes
of Grace, her sister, sitting with her husband in the orchard, on
their wedding-day, and his and Marion's birth-day.
He had not become a great man; he had not grown rich; he had not
forgotten the scenes and friends of his youth; he had not fulfilled
any one of the Doctor's old predictions. But, in his useful,
patient, unknown visiting of poor men's homes; and in his watching
of sick beds; and in his daily knowledge of the gentleness and
goodness flowering the by-paths of this world, not to be trodden
down beneath the heavy foot of poverty, but springing up, elastic,
in its track, and making its way beautiful; he had better learned
and proved, in each succeeding year, the truth of his old faith.
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