And yet, why dread? Had they not loved
her?--and who loved her now? Was she not lonely enough to welcome
the spirits of the dead, who had loved her while here? If her
mother had conscious being, her love for her child endured. So she
quieted her fears, and listened--listened still.
"Mary! Mary! open the door!" as a little movement on her part
seemed to tell the being outside of her wakeful, watchful state.
They were the accents of her mother's voice; the very south-country
pronunciation, that Mary so well remembered; and which she had
sometimes tried to imitate when alone, with the fond mimicry of
affection.
So, without fear, without hesitation, she rose and unbarred the
door. There, against the moonlight, stood a form, so closely
resembling her dead mother, that Mary never doubted the identity,
but exclaiming (as if she were a terrified child, secure of safety
when near the protecting care of its parent)--
"O mother! mother! you are come at last?" she threw herself, or
rather fell, into the trembling arms of her long-lost, unrecognised
aunt, Esther.
Pages:
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478