Thy grassy mantle weaving,
Fold softly in thy long embrace,
That heart so worn and broken,
And cool its pulse of fire beneath
Thy shadows old and oaken!”
—Whittier.
Meanwhile, the friends assembled downstairs, in Mrs. Helmstedt’s parlor, waited anxiously for her summons.
Presently, the bell rang, and Nellie Houston sprang up quickly to answer it. And soon after she left, Margaret appeared, but with a face so changed, so aghast, that all who beheld it were stricken with fear and wonder. It wore no expression of grief, or terror, or anxiety—it looked as if all these emotions were impossible to it, henceforth—it looked awed and appalled, as though some tremendous revelation of sin or suffering, or both, had fallen like a thunderbolt upon that young brow, and stricken childhood from it at once and forever.
Ralph Houston, who was waiting for her appearance, sprang up to meet her, and, alarmed at her expression of countenance, hastened toward her, exclaiming:
“Margaret, Margaret! what is it?”