“Maggie,” you say, “Mr. Thornton has been very kind to me.”

“Very kind, father.”

“I mean to leave him here some little legacy, Maggie.”

“I would not, father.”

“But Madge, my daughter!”

“He is not looking for such return, father.”

“But he has been very kind, Madge; I must show him some strong token of my regard.  What shall it be, Maggie?”

Madge hesitates,—­Madge blushes,—­Madge stoops to her father’s ear as if the very walls might catch the secret of her heart;—­“Would you give me to him, father?”

“But—­my dear Madge—­has he asked this?”

“Eight months ago, papa.”

“And you told him”—­

“That I would never leave you, so long as you lived!”

——­“My own dear Madge,—­come to me,—­kiss me!  And you love him, Maggie?”

“With all my heart, sir.”

——­“So like your mother,—­the same figure,—­the same true, honest heart!  It shall be as you wish, dear Madge.  Only you will not leave me in my old age,—­eh, Maggie?”

——­“Never, father,—­never.”

* * * * *

——­And there she leans upon his chair;—­her arm around the old man’s neck,—­her other hand clasped in his,—­and her eyes melting with tenderness as she gazes upon his aged face,—­all radiant with joy and with hope!

IV.

The End of Dreams.

A feeble old man, and a young lady who is just now blooming into the maturity of womanhood, are toiling up a gentle slope, where the spring sun lies warmly.  The old man totters, though he leans heavily upon his cane; and he pants as he seats himself upon a mossy rock that crowns the summit of the slope.  As he recovers breath, he draws the hand of the lady in his, and with a trembling eagerness he points out an old mansion that lies below under the shadow of tall sycamores; and he says,—­feebly and brokenly,—­“That is it, Maggie,—­the old home—­the sycamores—­the garret—­Charlie—­Nelly”—­

The old man wipes his eyes.  Then his hand shifts:  he seems groping in darkness; but soon it rests upon a little cottage below, heavily overshadowed.

“That was it, Maggie;—­Madge lived there—­sweet Madge—­your mother”—­

Again the old man wipes his eyes, and the lady turns away.

Presently they walk down the hill together.  They cross a little valley with slow, faltering steps.  The lady guides him carefully, until they reach a little graveyard.

“This must be it, Maggie, but the fence is new.  There it is, Maggie, under the willow,—­my poor mother’s grave!”

The lady weeps.

“Thank you, Madge; you did not know her, but you weep for me.  God bless you!”

* * * * *

The old man is in the midst of his household.  It is some festive day.  He holds feebly his place at the head of the board.  He utters in feeble tones—­a Thanksgiving.