A year goes by, but it leaves no added shadow on our hearthstone. The vines clamber and flourish; the oaks are winning age and grandeur; little Carry is blooming into the pretty coyness of girlhood, and Jamie, with his dark hair and flashing eyes, is the pride of his mother.
There is no alloy to pleasure, but the remembrance of poor little Paul. And even that, chastened as it is with years, is rather a grateful memorial that our life is not all here than a grief that weighs upon our hearts.
Sometimes, leaving little Carrie and Jamie to their play, we wander at twilight to the willow tree beneath which our drowned boy sleeps calmly for the great Awaking. It is a Sunday, in the week-day of our life, to linger by the little grave—to hang flowers upon the head-stone, and to breathe a prayer that our little Paul may sleep well in the arms of Him who loveth children.
And her heart, and my heart, knit together by sorrow, as they had been knit by joy—a silver thread mingled with the gold—follow the dead one to the land that is before us, until at last we come to reckon the boy as living in the new home which, when this is old, shall be ours also. And my spirit, speaking to his spirit, in the evening watches, seems to say joyfully—so joyfully that the tears half choke the utterance—“Paul, my boy, we will be there!”
And the mother, turning her face to mine, so that I see the moisture in her eye, and catch its heavenly look, whispers softly—so softly that an angel might have said it—“Yes, dear, we will be THERE!”
The night had now come, and my day under the oaks was ended. But a crimson belt yet lingered over the horizon, though the stars were out.
A line of shaggy mist lay along the surface of the brook. I took my gun from beside the tree, and my shot-pouch from its limb, and, whistling for Carlo—as if it had been Tray—I strolled over the bridge, and down the lane, to the old house under the elms.
I dreamed pleasant dreams that night—for I dreamed that my reverie was real.