THE BOY.
I don't know. Long ago; it's like a dream
To me. I was not born then. Deacon Snow
Has told me something of it. Mother cries
Even now, beside his grave. Poor uncle!
JERRY.
His grave! (That could not be, then.) Yet if it should be, How can I think Grace cried—
THE BOY.
How did you know
My mother's name was Grace?
JERRY.
I am confused
By what you say. But is your mother's name
Grace? How! Grace, too?
A strange uneasiness
In Jerry's breast had waked. They walked awhile
In silence. This he could not well believe,
That Grace and Reuben unhappy were, nor that
One son alone was theirs. Therefore aside
He thrust that hidden, sharp foreboding: still
He trusted, still sustained a calm suspense,
And ranged among his memories. "Tell me, son,"
He said, "about this Deacon Snow—Rob Snow
It must be, I suppose."