“Mr. Thurston is very anxious that I should go right away; he says he has been alone so long, and his children need me so much; but I told him I must see to the work I had on hand, so as to leave you all comfortable, or I shouldn’t be easy in my mind about going. It’s hard to leave such friends as I have got here, and to go away from dear little Willie’s grave too; but Mr. Ryder seems to think it is my duty to go, because there are so few that would be willing to take such a place. I don’t see how that can be, for I’m sure Mr. Thurston is one of the best of men, and I think any woman might be happy with him.”
From the earnestness with which this was said, I saw that Miss Letty was really interested in the good minister, and not about to sacrifice herself from a sense of duty merely; and I was glad to believe this, for I feared she might not be as comfortable under her new responsibilities as she had been in Woodbury.
The wedding took place in church; and after an hour or two spent at the parsonage, where the friends of the bride called to offer their congratulations and to bid her good-by, the happy pair left for their mountain home, from whence we have repeatedly heard of the new Mrs. Thurston, as useful and beloved beyond any of her predecessors in that place.
Mrs. Fenton had been for months rapidly failing, and her symptoms were now such as to indicate a speedy release from her sufferings. She was intensely anxious to see her long-absent son once more on earth, and this strong maternal feeling seemed actually to hold back the spirit, already pluming its wings for flight. “I shall not die till I have seen him again,” was her constant reply to the inquiries of her friends. “He will come in time to receive my parting breath, and I am content.”
Stanwood Fenton had never recovered from the wound received at South Mountain, and after months of terrible agony, had recently been obliged to submit to amputation of the hand as the only means of saving his life. He was now recovering slowly, and had been sent to the convalescent camp, when a letter from Elinor informed him of the condition of his mother. In spite of the remonstrances of his physicians he obtained, through the influence of Col. Lester, a dismissal from the camp, and started for home under the care of Capt. May, a former member of the Twenty-sixth, and now commander of a company in Col. Lester’s regiment, who had a furlough in consequence of ill health.
Mrs. Fenton had seemed to be in a dying state for several hours, but her frequent inquiries showed us that she still expected the arrival of her son, though no word had reached her of his intention to start for home.
“It is my only earthly care,” she said, “and I think my Father will grant me this request.”
She had been apparently sleeping, and all was perfectly still in and around the house, when suddenly starting and opening her eyes, she exclaimed, “He is coming; I hear the wheels; he is almost here; thank God.”
None of us could hear a sound; but the mother’s ears, quickened by affection, caught the distant rumbling, though the moment before death seemed about to close them for ever. A few moments brought the carriage to the door, and Elinor and Lilian flew to meet and welcome the returning wanderer.
“Is my mother still living?” was his first inquiry; and on receiving an answer in the affirmative, the strength which had sustained him on the way suddenly deserted him. He sank into a chair, and covering his face, gave way for a few moments to the emotions which shook his frame, while Elinor threw her arms around his neck, and wept silently. But Lilian, who knew the anxiety of her dying aunt, said tenderly,