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Three years have passed away, and twice the wintry
storms have swept over the two graves, which, on the prairies
of Illinois, were made when the glorious Indian summer
sun was shining o'er the earth, and the withered
leaves of autumn were strewn upon the ground. Stephen
and Eugenia are dead—he, dying as a drunkard dies—she,
as a drunkard's wife. Uncle Nat had been to visit the
western world, and on his return to Rose Hill, there was a
softened light in his eye, and a sadness in the tones of his
voice, as, drawing Dora to his side, he whispered, “I have
forgiven her—forgiven Eugenia Deane.”

Then he told her how an old man in his wanderings came
one day to a lonely cabin, where a wild-eyed woman was
raving in delirium, and tearing out handfuls of the long
black hair which floated over her shoulders. This she was
counting one by one, just as the old East India man had
counted the silken tress which was sent to him over the sea,
and she laughed with maniacal glee as she said the numbering
of all her hairs would atone for the sin she had done.
At intervals, too, rocking to and fro, she sang of the fearful
night when she had thought to steal the auburn locks concealed
within the old green trunk; on which the darkness
lay so heavy and so black, that she had turned away in

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terror, and glided from the room. In the old man's heart
there was much of bitterness towards that erring woman for
the wrong she had done to him and his, but when he found
her thus, when he looked on the new-made grave beneath
the buckeye tree, and felt that she was dying of starvation
and neglect, when he saw how the autumn rains, dripping
from a crevice in the roof, had drenched her scanty pillows
through and through—when he sought in the empty cupboard
for food or drink in vain, his heart softened towards
her, and for many weary days he watched her with the tenderest
care, administering to all her wants, and soothing her
in her frenzied moods, as he would a little child, and when
at last a ray of reason shone for a moment on her darkened
mind, and she told him how much she had suffered from the
hands of one who now slept just without the door, and
asked him to forgive her ere she died, he laid upon his
bosom her aching head, from which in places the long hair
had been torn, leaving it spotted and bald, and bending
gently over her, he whispered in her ear, “As freely as I
hope to be forgiven of Heaven, so freely forgive I you.”

With a look of deep gratitude, the dark eyes glanced at
him for a moment, then closed forever, and he was alone
with the dead.

Some women, whose homes were distant two or three
miles, had occasionally shared his vigils, and from many a
log cabin the people gathered themselves together, and
made for the departed a grave, and when the sun was high
in the heavens, and not a cloud dimmed the canopy of blue,
they buried her beside her husband, where the prairie
flowers and the tall rank grass would wave above her head.

This was the story he told, and Dora listening to it, wept
bitterly over the ill-fated Eugenia, whose mother and sister
never knew exactly how she died, for Uncle Nathaniel would

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not tell them, but from the time of his return from the West
his manner towards them was changed, and when the New
Year came round, one hundred golden guineas found entrance
at their door, accompanied with a promise that when
the day returned again, the gift should be repeated.

On the vine-wreathed pillars, and winding walks of Rose
Hill, the softened light of the setting sun is shining. April
flowers have wakened to life the fair spring blossoms, whose
delicate perfume, mingling with the evening air, steals
through the open casement, and kisses the bright face of
Dora, beautiful now as when she first called him her husband
who sits beside her, and who each day blesses her as his
choicest treasure.

On the balcony without, in a large armed willow chair, is
seated an old man, and as the fading sunlight falls around
him, a bright-haired little girl, not yet two years of age,
climbs upon his knee, and winding her chubby arms around
his neck, lisps the name of “Grandpa,” and the old man,
folding her to his bosom, sings to her softly and low of
another Fannie, whose eyes of blue were much like those
which look so lovingly into his face. Anon darkness steals
over all, but the new moon, “hanging like a silver thread
in the western sky,” shows us where Howard Hastings is
sitting, still with Dora at his side.

On the balcony, all is silent; the tremulous voice has
ceased; the blue-eyed child no longer listens; old age and
infancy sleep sweetly now together; the song is ended; the
story is done.

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