The manner of his life, though quiet and remote, had shown him how
often men still entertained angels, unawares, as in the olden time;
and how the most unlikely forms - even some that were mean and ugly
to the view, and poorly clad - became irradiated by the couch of
sorrow, want, and pain, and changed to ministering spirits with a
glory round their heads.
He lived to better purpose on the altered battle-ground, perhaps,
than if he had contended restlessly in more ambitious lists; and he
was happy with his wife, dear Grace.
And Marion. Had HE forgotten her?
'The time has flown, dear Grace,' he said, 'since then;' they had
been talking of that night; 'and yet it seems a long long while
ago. We count by changes and events within us. Not by years.'
'Yet we have years to count by, too, since Marion was with us,'
returned Grace. 'Six times, dear husband, counting to-night as
one, we have sat here on her birth-day, and spoken together of that
happy return, so eagerly expected and so long deferred. Ah when
will it be! When will it be!'
Her husband attentively observed her, as the tears collected in her
eyes; and drawing nearer, said:
'But, Marion told you, in that farewell letter which she left for
you upon your table, love, and which you read so often, that years
must pass away before it COULD be.
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