Gertrude sighed. "It was no such easy task for poor old Uncle True," said she; "there have been great improvements since his time."
"There have, indeed!" said Willie, glancing round the well-lit, warm, and pleasantly-furnished rooms of his own and Gertrude's home, and resting his eyes at last upon the beloved one by his side, whose beaming face but reflected back his own happiness—"such improvements, Gerty, as we only dreamt of once! I wish the dear old man could be here and share them!"
A tear started to Gertrude's eye; but, pressing Willie's arm, she pointed reverently upward to a beautiful, bright star just breaking forth from a silvery film which had hitherto half overshadowed it; the star through which Gertrude had ever fancied she could discern the smile of the kind old man.
"Dear Uncle True!" said she; "his lamp still burns brightly in heaven, Willie; and its light is not yet gone out on earth!"
In a beautiful town about thirty miles from Boston, and on the shore of those hill-embosomed ponds which would be immortalized by the poet in a country less rich than ours with such sheets of blue transparent water, there stood a mansion-house of solid though ancient architecture. It had been the property of Philip Amory's paternal grandparents, and the early home and sole inheritance of his father, who so cherished the spot that it was only with great reluctance, and when driven to the act by the spur of poverty, that he was induced to part with the much-valued estate.
To reclaim the venerable homestead, repair and judiciously modernize the house, and fertilize and adorn the grounds, was a favourite scheme with Philip. His ample means now rendered it practicable; he lost no time in putting it into execution, and the spring after he returned from his wanderings saw the work in a fair way to be speedily completed.
In the meantime Gertrude's marriage had taken place; the Grahams had removed to their house in town (which, out of compliment to Isabel, who was passing the winter with her aunt, was more than ever crowded with gay company), and the bustling mistress was already projecting changes in her husband's country-seat.
And Emily, who had parted with her greatest treasure, and found herself in an atmosphere which was little in harmony with her spirit, murmured not; but, contented with her lot, neither dreamed of nor asked for outward change until Philip came to her one day and, taking her by the hand, said gently—
"This is no home for you, Emily. You are as much alone as I in my solitary farm-house. We loved each other in childhood, our hearts became one youth, and have continued so until now. Why should we be longer parted? Your father will not now oppose our wishes; and will you, dearest, refuse to bless and gladden the lonely life of your grey-haired lover?"