Крамка старожитностей

Chapter 17

           

           Shewaslookingatahumblestonewhichtoldofayoungmanwhohaddiedattwenty-threeyearsold,fifty-fiveyearsago,whensheheardafalteringstepapproaching,andlookingroundsawafeeblewomanbentwiththeweightofyears,whototteredtothefootofthatsamegraveandaskedhertoreadthewritingonthestone.Theoldwomanthankedherwhenshehaddone,sayingthatshehadhadthewordsbyheartformanyalong,longyear,butcouldnotseethemnow.

           ‘Wereyouhismother?’saidthechild.

           ‘Iwashiswife,mydear.’

           Shethewifeofayoungmanofthree-and-twenty!Ah,true!Itwasfifty-fiveyearsago.

           ‘Youwondertohearmesaythat,’remarkedtheoldwoman,shakingherhead.‘You’renotthefirst.Olderfolkthanyouhavewonderedatthesamethingbeforenow.Yes,Iwashiswife.Deathdoesn’tchangeusmorethanlife,mydear.’

           ‘Doyoucomehereoften?’askedthechild.

           ‘Isithereveryofteninthesummertime,’sheanswered,‘Iusedtocomehereoncetocryandmourn,butthatwasawearywhileago,blessGod!’

           ‘Ipluckthedaisiesastheygrow,andtakethemhome,’saidtheoldwomanafterashortsilence.‘Ilikenoflowerssowellasthese,andhaven’tforfive-and-fiftyyears.It’salongtime,andI’mgettingveryold.’

           Thengrowinggarrulousuponathemewhichwasnewtoonelistenerthoughitwerebutachild,shetoldherhowshehadweptandmoanedandprayedtodieherself,whenthishappened;andhowwhenshefirstcametothatplace,ayoungcreaturestronginloveandgrief,shehadhopedthatherheartwasbreakingasitseemedtobe.

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