Lucy (Chapter_04)

William with a grateful look, resigned the spade he could no longer hold, and sat down on the trunk of the fallen tree, and mournfully and silently looked on, while the goodnatured neighbour finished his task.--One of the boys ran with a gourd to the spring, and brought him a draught of water; he thankfully received it, nor did he refuse the piece of bread and cheese, offered by another boy for he had not eaten a mouthful since the day before.--[A few watery beams of the setting sun, gleamed from behind a dark mess of stormy clouds, The loud winds were hushed, or only sighed through the long-grass, which grew on the little mounds of earth which rose thick around him. [The work was done. He rose feebly from his lowly seat, and {?} -aly shaking hands with the school-master and boys, turned his tottering steps into a foot-path which led home by a short way across the fields. It was almost dark, when he reached the cabin--no light blazed thro' the little window, and no glad children ran, as afore time to meet him on his return--But more mournful still no, sweet Lucy stood at the door-way with smiling {face?} and out stretched hand, to welcome home the wanderer When he entered the lowly door, all was dark and dim within; through the dusky twilight he {discovered?} the children hovering over a few dying embers, and turning their corn-cake on the griddle, He passed into the little chamber, and started on seeing her, whose body he had left stretched on the bed-stead--now laid in her coffin, which was placed on a table in the middle of the room.--[Allan was sitting on the foot of the bed, holding his staff between his knees, on which he leaned his head. His gray locks, had fallen forward and hid his face--he sat so still--so motionless, that his

been supposed that he was asleep or dead. William, sunk into a chair near the coffin, and leaning his head on it, gave way to tears which silenly streamed over the cold-pale face of Mrs Donald. A kind old woman, one of their neighbours, who had performed the last offices for the dead, now entered, and insisted on Allan and William going into the next room taking a bit of supper.--[The fire had been kindled, and lent its cheerful blaze--the tea-table was set, the children gathered round--Allan had taken the old arm chair placed for him by the kind neighbour--all were seated. The cups were arranged, the good woman had her hand on the tea-pot, and only waited until the blessing was asked, before she poured out the tea.--She looked at Allan--the very chair under the old man shook with his emotion--he clasped his hands--he raised his eyes,--he moved his lips, as if to pray; but words were denied him; he would only bow his head, and mutter some unintelligible sounds. It was enough--every heart had invoked that blessing, which their lips could not utter. In silence they took in the offered cups, in silence swallowed their simple supper. Their neighbour joined William in entreating the broken hearted old man, to try and get some sleep, and to lie with his children in the loft where a bed had been made for him. He at last yielded, and was supported to it by William and the good woman, who promised to sit by the body all night, in company with the servant-girl. The next morning the heavy clouds, which all the day had been driven { ?} the sky by the high wind from the ocean, were now settled into a gloomy mass, which cover'd the whole face of the heavens, as with a pall. With the setting sun--the high wind had sunk to rest, and the forest, which had been torn and agitated by its {effects?} was now motionless and still.--Then William arose {next?} __________________________________[can not read last line[

(top half of page crossed out)

William walked forth, and raised his burning fore head; and opened his oppressed bosom to the reviving moisture; his parched lips caught the drops as they gently fell, and he bathed his blood-shot eyes in the cooling shower--The hour was come for carrying the mother of his Lucy to her last home--["Blessed are the dead, that the rain, rains on" repeated William to himself, as with the assistance of {their?} black-man be put the horse to the cart, and made other simple preparations, for putting the body in the ground --------------------{can not read last line}

not have the funeral (underlined), until the next Sunday--when they could get the minister to preach the funeral sermon.*

The husband & sons, of this good woman, came over in the morning, & the cart driving up to the door, they helped to lift the coffin in; a clean sheet (for pall they had none) was spread over, in decent concealment of the melancholy object. The black man, walked by the horse's head leading him carefuly over the narrow & little used road through the cornfield & among the stumps of trees that still impeded the way through the woods.--Allan insisted on following the remains of his murder'd (underlined) wife as he called her, to her last, long home. His neighbor, & one of his sons, supported the tottering steps of one, more enfeebled by his grief, than by his age; it was a task William could not perform, for worn out by fasting, sorrow & watching, he could scarcely drag his own feeble & emaciated frame along; & while he held Fanny with one hand, he leaned his other on the shoulder of Billy, to steady & support himself -- The old dog, who walked, slowly & heavily, close by his master, & waving his tail in between his legs, & uttering a low growl, or moaning sound, would look from his master to the cart, as if to ask what all this meant.

When they reached the solitary church yard, the men took the coffin from the cart, & carrying it to the new made grave, left William to assist the afflicted husband. He could not stand, but when he reached the spot, sunk sat down on the trunk of the fallen oak, & leaned his head against its blasted branches, & look mournfully on, whilst his neighbours were laying the wife of his bosom in her lonely dwelling. The kindly showers of heaven, softened the hardened soil; but no kindly tears flowed from the burning eyes of Allan, to relieve his almost bursting heart. He shuddered as he heard the gravel, rattling on the coffin; the sound fell still heavier upon his wounded spirit. When he arose from the spot, where he must now leave the companion of his life, his limbs

______________________________________________________ * In this neighborhood it is the custom to bury the dead often without any religious service, or the attendance of many friends, which they call

refused their support, and he was lifted into the cart, which carried him back to his now desolate dwelling.

Week after week passed, and as often did William call on the benevolent editor, but no tidings of his lost one repaid him for his weary walks. Week after week and month after month passed-and spring returned. but neither joy, nor health nor comfort returned to the Cottage of poor Allan. It is children, his farm, his life were alike indifferent to him. Time may sooth sorrow, but can it drive remorse from the feeling and affectionate tho' erring heart Allan at least found it could not. His broken oath rankled like a barbed arrow in his conscience. When William first returned, he, in the bitterness of his grief had forgotten it, and now, how could it be fulfilled? How could he throw away the only staff that remained to support his tottering steps, how return such watchful affection