IV.
The End of Dreams.
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"—
The old man wipes his eyes. 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.