n that grief is softened now.

It seems but yesterday--and yet how the gay and laughing faces of that
bright morning have changed and vanished from above ground! Faint
likenesses of some remain about them yet, but they are very faint and
scarcely to be traced. The rest are only seen in dreams, and even they
are unlike what they were, in eyes so old and dim.

One or two dresses from the bridal wardrobe are yet preserved. They are
of a quaint and antique fashion, and seldom seen except in pictures.
White has turned yellow, and brighter hues have faded. Do you wonder,
child? The wrinkled face was once as smooth as yours, the eyes as
bright, the shrivelled skin as fair and delicate. It is the work of
hands that have been dust these many years.

Where are the fairy lovers of that happy day whose annual return comes
upon the old man and his wife, like the echo of some village bell which
has long been silent? Let yonder peevish bachelor, racked by rheumatic
pains, and quarrelling with the world, let him answer to the question.
He recollects something of a favourite playmate; her name was Lucy--so
they tell him. He is not sure whether she was married, or went abroad,
or died. It is a long while ago, and he don't remember.

Is nothing as it used to be; does no one feel, or think, or act, as in
days of yore? Yes. There is an aged woman who once lived servant with
the old lady's father, and is sheltered in an alms-house not far off.
She is still attached to the family, and loves them all; she nursed the
children in her lap, and tended in their sickness those who are no more.
Her old mistress has still something of youth in her eyes; the young
ladies are like what she was but not quite so handsome, nor are the
gentlemen as stately as Mr. Harvey used to be. She has seen a great deal
of trouble; her husband and her son died long ago; but she has got over
that, and is happy now--quite happy.

If ever her attachment to her old protectors were disturbed by fresher
cares and hopes, it has long since resumed its former current. It has
filled the void in the poor creature's heart, and replaced the love of
kindred. Death has not left her alone, and this, with a roof above her
head, and a warm hearth to sit by, makes her cheerful and contented.
Does she remember the marriage of great-grandmamma? Ay, that she does,
as well--as if it was only yesterday. You wouldn't think it to look at
her now, and perhaps she ought not to