“Do I remember them, Annie? Yes; I could never forget them. Listen!”
It had now become almost too dark for our little home party to see each other’s faces. A “moon-plant,” in the full glory of its lovely large white flowers, partly covered a corner of the verandah, which a last streak of evening light had brightened from the surrounding gloom.
Under the soft white blossoms of the gigantic convolvulus Parson Tabor took his stand, and with outstretched hand, and in soft, yet manly tones, rehearsed the following lines:—
“Ye, who prepare with Pilgrim feet
Your long and doubtful path to wend,
If whitening on the waste ye meet
The relics of my murdered friend.
His bones with reverence ye shall bear,
To where some mountain streamlet flows,
There by its mossy bank prepare