By and by, came letters from the lads; those of Norman and Harry full of bitter regrets, which to Graeme seemed almost like reproaches, that they had not been sent for before the end; and the grief of those at home came back strong and fresh again.
The coming of the “bonny spring days” for which Norman had so wished, wakened “vain longings for the dead.” The brooks rose high, and the young leaves rustled on the elms; and all pleasant sounds spoke to them with Menie’s voice. The flowers which she had planted,—the May-flower and the violets by the garden path, looked at them with Menie’s eyes. The odour of the lilacs, by the gate, and of the pine trees on the hill came with that mysterious power to awaken old associations, bringing back to Graeme the memory of the time when they first came to the house on the hill, when they were all at home together, and Menie was a happy child. All these things renewed their sorrow, but not sharply or bitterly. It was the sorrow of chastened and resigned hearts, coming back with hopeful patience to tread the old paths of their daily life, missing the lost one, and always with a sense of waiting for the time when they shall meet again, but quite content.
And Mrs Snow, watching both the minister and Graeme, “couldna be thankful enough” for what she saw. But as the weeks passed on there mingled with her thankfulness an anxiety which she herself was inclined to resent. “As though the Lord wasna bringing them through their troubles in a way that was just wonderful,” she said to herself, many a time. At last, when the days passed into weeks, bringing no colour to the cheeks, and no elasticity to the step of Graeme, she could not help letting her uneasiness be seen.
“It’s her black dress that makes her look so pale, ain’t it?” said Mr Snow, but his face was grave, too.
“I dare say that makes a difference, and she is tired to-day, too. She wearied herself taking the flowers and things over yonder,” said Mrs Snow, glancing towards the spot where the white grave-stones gleamed out from the pale, green foliage of spring-time. “And no wonder. Even Emily was over tired, and hasna looked like herself since. I dare say I’m troubling myself when there is no need.”
“The children, Will, and Rosie, don’t worry her with their lessons, do they?”
“I dinna ken. Sometimes I think they do. But she would weary far more without them. We must have patience. It would never do to vex the minister with fears for her.”
“No, it won’t do to alarm him,” said Mr Snow, with emphasis; and he looked very grave. In a little he opened his lips as if to say more, but seemed to change his mind.
“It ain’t worth while to worry her with it. I don’t more than half believe it myself. Doctors don’t know everything. It seems as though it couldn’t be so—and if it is so, it’s best to keep still about it—for a spell, anyhow.”
And Mr Snow vaguely wished that Doctor Chittenden had not overtaken him that afternoon, or that they had not talked so long and so gravely beneath the great elms.