Helen. 'Tis lovely—all.
Annie. There goes the last golden rim over the blackening woods; already even a shade of tender mourning steals over all things, the very children's voices under this tree,—how soft they grow.
Helen. Will the day come when we shall see him sink, for the last time, behind those hills?
Annie. Nay, Helen, why do you mar this lovely hour with a thought like that?
Helen. And in another life, shall we see light, when his, for us, shines no more?—What sound is that?
Annie. That faint cry from the woods?
Helen. No,—more distant,—far off as the horizon, like some mighty murmur, faintly borne, it came.
Annie. I wish that we had gone to-day. I do not like this waiting until Thursday;—just one of that elder brother's foolish whims it was. I cannot think how your consent was won to it. Did you meet any one in your walk just now?
Helen. No—Yes, yes, I did. The little people where I went, I met by hundreds, Annie. Through the dark aisles, and the high arches, all decked in blue, and gold, and crimson, they sung me a most merry welcome. And such as these—see—You cannot think how like long-forgotten friends they looked, smiling up from their dark homes, upon me.
Annie. You have had chance enough to forget them, indeed,—it is two years, Helen, since you have been in those woods before. What could have tempted you there to-day?