Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

The Story of the Goblins who stole a Sexton

           Then,ashesatdowntohismealbeforethefire,thechildrenclimbedabouthisknee,andthemothersatbyhisside,andallseemedhappinessandcomfort.

           ‘Butachangecameupontheview,almostimperceptibly.Thescenewasalteredtoasmallbedroom,wherethefairestandyoungestchildlaydying;theroseshadfledfromhischeek,andthelightfromhiseye;andevenasthesextonlookeduponhimwithaninteresthehadneverfeltorknownbefore,hedied.Hisyoungbrothersandsisterscrowdedroundhislittlebed,andseizedhistinyhand,socoldandheavy;buttheyshrankbackfromitstouch,andlookedwithaweonhisinfantface;forcalmandtranquilasitwas,andsleepinginrestandpeaceasthebeautifulchildseemedtobe,theysawthathewasdead,andtheyknewthathewasanangellookingdownupon,andblessingthem,fromabrightandhappyHeaven.

           ‘Againthelightcloudpassedacrossthepicture,andagainthesubjectchanged.Thefatherandmotherwereoldandhelplessnow,andthenumberofthoseaboutthemwasdiminishedmorethanhalf;butcontentandcheerfulnesssatoneveryface,andbeamedineveryeye,astheycrowdedroundthefireside,andtoldandlistenedtooldstoriesofearlierandbygonedays.Slowlyandpeacefully,thefathersankintothegrave,and,soonafter,thesharerofallhiscaresandtroublesfollowedhimtoaplaceofrest.

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