He told her of his progress with his mother; he told her his hopes
and was silent on the subject of his fears.
"To think how sorrow and joy are mixed up together. You'll date
your start in life as Mary's acknowledged lover from poor Alice
Wilson's burial day. Well! the dead are soon forgotten!"
"Dear Margaret! But you're worn-out with your long evening waiting
for me. I don't wonder. But never you, nor any one else, think
because God sees fit to call up new interests, perhaps right out of
the grave, that therefore the dead are forgotten. Margaret, you
yourself can remember our looks, and fancy what we're like."
"Yes! but what has that to do with remembering Alice?"
"Why, just this. You're not always trying to think on our faces,
and making a labour of remembering; but often, I'll be bound, when
you're sinking off to sleep, or when you're very quiet and still,
the faces you knew so well when you could see, come smiling before
you with loving looks. Or you remember them, without striving after
it, and without thinking it's your duty to keep recalling them.
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