Buxton's, where the little girl in white and that great tall boy lived.
Instead of staying there, or anywhere else, on Sundays, Mrs. Browne thought
it her duty to go and cry over her husband's grave. The custom had arisen
out of true sorrow for his loss, for a kinder husband, and more worthy man,
had never lived; but the simplicity of her sorrow had been destroyed by the
observation of others on the mode of its manifestation. They made way for
her to cross the grass toward his grave; and she, fancying that it was
expected of her, fell into the habit I have mentioned. Her children,
holding each a hand, felt awed and uncomfortable, and were sensitively
conscious how often they were pointed out, as a mourning group, to
observation.
"I wish it would always rain on Sundays," said Edward one day to Maggie, in
a garden conference.
"Why?" asked she.
"Because then we bustle out of church, and get home as fast as we can, to
save mamma's crape; and we have not to go and cry over papa."
"I don't cry," said Maggie. "Do you?"
Edward looked round before he answered, to see if they were quite alone,
and then said:
"No; I was sorry a long time about papa, but one can't go on being sorry
forever. Perhaps grown-up people can."
"Mamma can," said little Maggie. "Sometimes I am very sorry too; when I am
by myself or playing with you, or when I am wakened up by the moonlight
in our room.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25