" She said this with tears in her eyes, and
an unsteady voice.
As I sit writing, I can see from my window the simple white monument,
which Mary Ellen and I planned together. The grass and field-flowers are
growing all about it, and the birds, Emily's birds, are singing in the
branches above. It has only this inscription,--
"_In memory of David and Emily_."
"Six children,--and only one grave to show for all of them!" groaned the
poor old mother, when we first led her out to show her the stone.
But there was shortly another grave beneath the maples; for the worn-out
old woman soon sank after Emily's death, and with her last breath begged
to be laid by her side.
Only the old man and Miss Joey left. Still I could not go away. No other
place seemed like home. And besides, I had found out, long ago, my own
secret. It had been revealed to me, day by day, as I watched Mary Ellen
in the sick-room of Emily,--as I observed her patience, her sweetness,
her tenderness!
And my secret came upon me with an overwhelming power. But I mastered
it. I kept it to myself. That is, as far as words were concerned.
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