hollow of his
hand, to stand near to him before the throne, to look with fearless
eyes into his face, to touch him with her happy tears among his sinless
ones forever.

And think you that _then_, any should scorn the woman whom the high and
lofty One, beholding, did thus love? Who could lay anything to the
charge of his elect?

Perhaps he told her all this, in the pauses of the storm, for something
in her face transfigured it.

"Mother, it's all over now. I think I shall be your little girl again."

And so, with a smile, she went to Him. The light flashed broader and
brighter about the room, and on the dead face there,--never Meg's again.
A strong man, bowed over it, was weeping. Muff moaned out his brute
sorrow where the still hand touched him.

But Martha Ryck, kneeling down beside her only child, gave thanks to
God.

What Was the Matter?

I could not have been more than seven or eight years old, when it
happened; but it might have been yesterday. Among all other childish
memories, it stands alone. To this very day it brings with it the old,
utter sinking of the heart, and the old, dull sense of mystery.

To read what I have to say, you should have known my mother. To
understand it, you should understand her. But that is quite impossible
now, for there is a quiet spot over the hill, and past the church, and
beside the little brook where the crimsoned mosses grow thick and wet
and cool, from which I cannot call her. It is all I have left of her
now. But after all, it is not of her that you will chiefly care to hear.
My object is simply to acquaint you with a few facts, which, though
interwoven with the events of her life, are quite independent of it as
objects of interest. It is, I know, only my own heart that makes these
pages a memorial,--but, you see, I cannot help it.

Yet, I confess, no glamour of any earthly love has ever entirely dazzled
me,--not even hers. Of imperfections, of mistakes, of sins, I knew she
was guilty. I know it now; even with the sanctity of those crimsoned
mosses, and the hush of the rest beneath, so close to my heart, I cannot
forget them. Yet somehow--I do not know how--the imperfections, the
mistakes, the very sins, bring her nearer to me as the years slip by,
and make her dearer.

My mother was what we call an aristocrat. I do not like the term, as the
term is used. I am sure she does not now; but I have no other word. She
was a royal-looking woman, and she had the b