“Long? Oh yes! It is a long, long time. You were a boy, and I unbent by age.”
“Markland!” exclaimed T——, with sudden energy, springing to his feet as the truth flashed upon him. “Say—is it so?”
“My name is Markland.”
“And do we meet again thus!” said T——, with emotion, as he grasped the old man’s hand. “Ah, sir, I have never forgotten you. When a sad-hearted boy, you spoke to me kindly, and the words comforted me when I had no other comfort. The bunch of flowers you gave me—you remember it, no doubt—are still fresh in my heart. Not a leaf has faded. They are as bright and green, and full of perfume as when I first hid them there; and there they will bloom forever—the unfading flowers of gratitude. I am glad you have come, though grieved that your declining years are made heavier by misfortune. Heaven has smiled on my efforts in the world. I have enough, and to spare.”
“I have not come for charity,” returned Markland. “I have hands, and they would not be idle, though it is not much that they can accomplish.”
“Be not troubled on that account, my friend,” was kindly answered. “I will find something for you to do. But first tell me all about yourself.”
Thus encouraged, the old man told his story. It was the common history of loss of property and friends, and the approach of want with declining years. T—— saw that pride and native independence were still strong in Markland’s bosom, feeble as he was, and really unable to enter upon any serious employment; and his first impulse was to save his feelings at the same time that he extended to him entire and permanent relief. This he found no difficulty in doing, and the old man was soon after placed in a situation where but little application was necessary, while the income was all-sufficient for the comfortable support of himself and grandchild.
The flowers offered with a purely humane feeling, proved to be fadeless flowers; and their beauty and perfume came back to the senses of the giver when all other flowers were dead or dying on his dark and dreary way.