| 368 | 369 | 370 | 371 | 372 |
| 1 | 133 | 265 | 398 | 530 |
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They took their supper together, in the house which may be
henceforth called the child's; and, when they had finished their meal,
drew round the fire, and almost in whispers - their hearts were too
quiet and glad for loud expression - discussed their future plans.
Before they separated, the schoolmaster read some prayers aloud; and
then, full of gratitude and happiness, they parted for the night.
At that silent hour, when her grandfather was sleeping peacefully in
his bed, and every sound was hushed, the child lingered before the
dying embers, and thought of her past fortunes as if they had been a
dream And she only now awoke. The glare of the sinking flame,
reflected in the oaken panels whose carved tops were dimly seen in
the dusky roof - the aged walls, where strange shadows came and
went with every flickering of the fire - the solemn presence, within, of
that decay which falls on senseless things the most enduring in their
nature: and, without, and round about on every side, of Death - filled
her with deep and thoughtful feelings, but with none of terror or
alarm. A change had been gradually stealing over her, in the time of
her loneliness and sorrow. With failing strength and heightening
resolution, there had sprung up a purified and altered mind; there
had grown in her bosom blessed thoughts and hopes, which are the
portion of few but the weak and drooping. There were none to see the
frail, perishable figure, as it glided from the fire and leaned pensively
at the open casement; none but the stars, to look into the upturned
face and read its history. The old church bell rang out the hour with a
mournful sound, as if it had grown sad from so much communing
with the dead and unheeded warning to the living; the fallen leaves
rustled; the grass stirred upon the graves; all else was still and
sleeping.
Some of those dreamless sleepers lay close within the shadow of the
church - touching the wall, as if they clung to it for comfort and
protection. Others had chosen to lie beneath the changing shade of
trees; others by the path, that footsteps might come near them;
others, among the graves of little children. Some had desired to rest
beneath the very ground they had trodden in their daily walks; some,
where the setting sun might shine upon their beds; some, where its
light would fall upon them when it rose. Perhaps not one of the
imprisoned souls had been able quite to separate itself in living
thought from its old companion. If any had, it had still felt for it a love
like that which captives have been known to bear towards the cell in
which they have been long confined, and, even at parting, hung upon
its narrow bounds affectionately.
It was long before the child closed the window, and approached her
bed. Again something of the same sensation as before - an involuntary
chill - a momentary feeling akin to fear - but vanishing directly, and
leaving no alarm behind. Again, too, dreams of the little scholar; of the
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