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Chapter XXVI
Almost broken-hearted, Nell withdrew with the schoolmaster from the
bedside and returned to his cottage. In the midst of her grief and tears
she was yet careful to conceal their real cause from the old man, for
the dead boy had been a grandchild, and left but one aged relative to
mourn his premature decay.
She stole away to bed as quickly as she could, and when she was
alone, gave free vent to the sorrow with which her breast was
overcharged. But the sad scene she had witnessed, was not without
its lesson of content and gratitude; of content with the lot which left
her health and freedom; and gratitude that she was spared to the one
relative and friend she loved, and to live and move in a beautiful
world, when so many young creatures - as young and full of hope as
she - were stricken down and gathered to their graves. How many of
the mounds in that old churchyard where she had lately strayed, grew
green above the graves of children! And though she thought as a child
herself, and did not perhaps sufficiently consider to what a bright and
happy existence those who die young are borne, and how in death
they lose the pain of seeing others die around them, bearing to the
tomb some strong affection of their hearts (which makes the old die
many times in one long life), still she thought wisely enough, to draw a
plain and easy moral from what she had seen that night, and to store
it, deep in her mind.
Her dreams were of the little scholar: not coffined and covered up, but
mingling with angels, and smiling happily. The sun darting his
cheerful rays into the room, awoke her; and now there remained but
to take leave of the poor schoolmaster and wander forth once more.
By the time they were ready to depart, school had begun. In the
darkened room, the din of yesterday was going on again: a little
sobered and softened down, perhaps, but only a very little, if at all.
The schoolmaster rose from his desk and walked with them to the
gate.
It was with a trembling and reluctant hand, that the child held out to
him the money which the lady had given her at the races for her
flowers: faltering in her thanks as she thought how small the sum
was, and blushing as she offered it. But he bade her put it up, and
stooping to kiss her cheek, turned back into his house.
They had not gone half-a-dozen paces when he was at the door again;
the old man retraced his steps to shake hands, and the child did the
same.
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