Her beauty, in one sense, had
gone; in another sense, she was fairer than ever. Her noble face had
lost its bloom and its fine contour, but her mouth was sweeter and
stronger, and her eyes full of the light of a soul standing in the
promise of heaven. She had much of her old energy and activity. In
the spring of the year she went to Texas to see a son and daughter
who had settled there; and, with one of her grandchildren, rode
thoughtfully, but not unhappily, over all the pleasant places she had
been with Richard that first happy year of their marriage. Richard
had been six years dead, but she had never mourned him as those mourn
who part hands in mid-life, when the way is still long before the
lonely heart. In a short time they would meet again, for
"As the pale waste widens around us,
And the banks fade dimmer away,
As the stars come out, the night wind
Brings up the stream
Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea."
Yet there had been a very solemn parting between her and Phyllis; and
when Phyllis stooped twice to the face in the departing carriage, and
the two women kissed each other so silently, John was somehow touched
into an unusual thoughtfulness; and for the first time realized that
his sweet Phyllis was fading away. He could not talk in his usual
cheery manner, and when he said, "Farewell, Elizabeth," and held her
hand, he involuntarily glanced at his wife, and walked away with his
eyes full of tears.
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