She fell back, and spoke word never more. She held the locket
containing her child's hair still in her hand, and once or twice she
kissed it with a long soft kiss. She cried feebly and sadly as long
as she had any strength to cry, and then she died.
They laid her in one grave with John Barton. And there they lie
without name, or initial, or date. Only this verse is inscribed
upon the stone which covers the remains of these two wanderers.
Psalm ciii. v. 9.--"For He will not always chide, neither will He
keep His anger for ever."
I see a long, low, wooden house, with room enough and to spare. The
old primeval trees are felled and gone for many a mile around; one
alone remains to overshadow the gable-end of the cottage. There is
a garden around the dwelling, and far beyond that stretches an
orchard. The glory of an Indian summer is over all, making the
heart leap at the sight of its gorgeous beauty.
At the door of the house, looking towards the town, stands Mary,
watching the return of her husband from his daily work; and while
she watches, she listens, smiling--
"Clap hands, daddy comes,
With his pocket full of plums,
And a cake for Johnnie.
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