The sun was set. Darkness was upon the mighty deep, and the waves moved by the breeze which had sprung up, seemed to chant a mournful dirge for the boy who, far below, lay sleeping in a dishonored grave, if grave it can be called, where
“The purple mullet and gold fish rove,
Where the sea flower spreads its leaves of blue
Which never are wet with the falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine
Far down in the depths of the glassy brine.”
Over the surging billow and away to the northward, other robins are singing in the old maple-tree than those which sang there years ago, when death seemed brooding o’er the place. Again the summer shadows fall aslant the bright green lawn, and the soft breeze laden with the perfume of a thousand flowers, kiss the faded brow of Lina Hastings, but they bring no gladness to her aching heart, for her thoughts are afar on the deep with the wayward boy who, spurning alike her words of love and censure, has gone from her ‘to return no more forever,’ he said, for she felt in her bitter anger. For three years the tall grass has grown over the grave of her husband, who to the last was unloved, and now she is alone in her splendid home, watching at the dawn of day and watching at the hour of eve for the return of her son.
Alas, alas, fond mother, Mabel Parkham in her hour of trial, never felt a throb of such bitter agony as that which wrung your heartstrings when first you heard the dreadful story of your disgrace. There were days and weeks of wild frenzy, during which she would shriek ‘Would to Heaven he had died that night when he was young and innocent,’ and then she grew calm, sinking into a state of imbecility from which naught had power to rouse her.
A year or two more, and they made for her a grave by the side of her husband, and the hearts which in life were so divided, now rest quietly together, while on the costly marble above them there is inscribed the name of their son, who sleeps alone and unwept in the far-off Southern Seas.
THE END.