dly, drifted away
from earth, like an infant sinking to rest, The torch had flashed up
before going out.

CHAPTER LXXIX

She who had wept for poor old Martin was not likely to bear this blow so
stoically as the death of the old is apt to be borne. In vain Catherine
tried to console her with commonplaces; in vain told her it was a happy
release for him; and that, as he himself had said, the tree was ripe.
But her worst failure was, when she urged that there were now but two
mouths to feed; and one care the less.

"Such cares are all the joys I have," said Margaret. "They fill my
desolate heart, which now seems void as well as waste. Oh, empty chair,
my bosom it aches to see thee. Poor old man, how could I love him by
halves, I that did use to sit and look at him and think, 'But for me
thou wouldst die of hunger.' He, so wise, so learned erst, was got to
be helpless as my own sweet babe, and I loved him as if he had been
my child instead of my father. Oh, empty chair! Oh, empty heart!
Well-a-day! well-a-day!"

And the pious tears would not be denied.

Then Catherine held her peace; and hung her head. And one day she made
this confession, "I speak to thee out o' my head, and not out o' my
bosom; thou dost well to be deaf to me. Were I in thy place I should
mourn the old man all one as thou dost."

Then Margaret embraced her, and this bit of true sympathy did her a
little good. The commonplaces did none.

Then Catherine's bowels yearned over her, and she said, "My poor girl,
you were not born to live alone. I have got to look on you as my own
daughter. Waste not thine youth upon my son Gerard. Either he is dead or
he is a traitor. It cuts my heart to say it; but who can help seeing it?
Thy father is gone; and I cannot always be aside thee. And here is
an honest lad that loves thee well this many a day. I'd take him and
Comfort together. Heaven hath sent us these creatures to torment us and
comfort us and all; we are just nothing in the world without 'em," Then
seeing Margaret look utterly perplexed, she went on to say, "Why, sure
you are not so blind as not to see it?"

"What? Who?"

"Who but this Luke Peterson."

"What, our Luke? The boy that carries my basket?"

"Nay, he is over nineteen, and a fine healthy lad; and I have made
inquiries for you; and they all do say he is a capable workman, and
never touches a drop; and that is much in a Rotterdam lad, which they
are mostly half man, half sponge."

Ma