Through the open casement of a small, white cottage
in the village of P—, the rays of the September moon
are stealing, disclosing to view a gray-haired man, whose
placid face still shows marks of long years of dissipation.
Affectionately he caresses the black, curly head, which is
resting on his knee, and softly he says, “Lenora, my
daughter, there are, I trust, years of happiness in store for
us both.”

“I hope it may be so,” was the answer, “but there is
no promise of many days to any save those who honor

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

their father and mother. This last I have never done,
though many, many times have I repented of it, and I
begin to be assured that we may be happy yet.”

Away to the westward, over many miles of woodland,
valley, and hill, the same September moon shines upon
the white walls of the homestead, where sits the owner,
Walter Hamilton, gazing first upon his wife, and then
upon the tiny treasure which lies sleeping upon her lap.

“We are very happy, Katy darling,” he says, and the
affection which looks from her large, blue eyes, as she
lifts them to his face, is a sufficient answer.

Margaret, too, is there, and though but an hour ago her
tears were falling upon the grass grown graves, where
slept her father and mother, the gentle Carrie and golden-haired
Willie, they are all gone now, and she responds
to her brother's words, “Yes, Walter, we are
very happy.”

In the basement below the candle is burned to its
socket, and as the last ray flickers up, illuminating for a
moment the room, and then leaving it in darkness, Aunt
Polly Pepper starts from her evening nap, and as if continuing
her dream, mutters, “Yes, this is pleasant, and
something like living.”

And so with the moonlight and starlight falling upon
the old homestead, and the sunlight of love falling upon
the hearts of its inmates, we bid them adieu.

p598-120

Previous section

Next section