river. Evergreens grow about the edges. The top is nearly clear. It is a graveyard, Mary. In one corner, under a hemlock heavy with snow, and within a railing, I see two simple white stones, such as are put over children’s graves. It is strangely like a scene that we have looked at very sadly together. Shall I read the names I almost fancy I decipher upon the stones?
“Do, dear John,” she said between her sobs. “All memories of them are beautiful to me.”
“John, son of John and Mary Brightly, drowned at eight years of age, while endeavoring to rescue his drowning sister Mary. ‘In death they were not divided.’”
Brightly took his wife’s hand very tenderly, as in this grave, formal way he recalled their domestic tragedy.
“We do not repine, my love,” said he.
He was a singularly sturdy, bold, energetic-looking man; almost belligerent indeed, except that an expression of frank good-nature showed that, though warlike, he would not wage war unless on compulsion, and when peace was impossible. His face was round and ruddy, his hair light, his eyes dark blue, his figure of the middle height, and solid as if he was built to carry weight. Evidently a man to make himself heard and felt, one to hit hard if he hit at all. It was a shrewd and able face, and if it had a weakness, it was that there was too much frankness, too much trustfulness, too little reserve in it. A rough observer would
