with a still sweet and lovely face
looking placidly forth from between its bands of soft, white hair.

How they have loved, and do love one another, even to this their old
age! All the best and truest light of that which we call Romance shines
steadily about them yet. No sight so dear to Everett's eyes as that
quiet figure,--no sound so welcome to his ears as her voice. She is all
to him that she ever was,--the sweetest, dearest, best portion of that
which we call his life.

Yes, I speak advisedly, and say he _is_, they _are_. It is strange that
this Visionary, who was wont to be reproached with the unpracticality of
all he did or purposed, the unreality of whose life was a byword, should
yet impress himself and his existence so vividly on those about him that
even now we cannot speak of him as one that is _no more_. He seems still
to be of us, though we do not see him, and his place is empty in the
world.

His wife went first. She died in her sleep, while he was watching her,
holding her hand fast in his. He laid the last kisses on her eyes, her
mouth, and those cold hands.

After that, he seemed _to wait_. They who saw him sitting _alone_ under
the beech-trees, day by day, found something very strangely moving in
the patient serenity of his look. He never seemed sad or lonely through
all that time,--only patiently hopeful, placidly expectant. So the
autumn twilights often came to him as he stood, his face towards the
west, looking out from their old favorite spot.

One evening, when his daughter and her husband came out to him, he did
not linger, as was usual with him, but turned and went forward to meet
them, with a bright smile, brighter than the sunset glow behind him, on
his face. He leaned rather heavily on their supporting arms, as they
went in. At the door, the little ones came running about him, as they
loved to do. Perhaps the very lustre of his face awed them, or the sight
of their mother's tears; for a sort of hush came over them, even to the
youngest, as he kissed and blessed them all.

And then, when they had left the room, he laid his head upon his
daughter's breast, and uttered a few low words. He had been so happy, he
said, and he thanked God for all,--even to this, the end. It had been so
good to live!--it was so happy to die! Then he paused awhile, and closed
his eyes.

"In the silence, I can hear your mother's voice," he murmured, and he
clasped his hands. "O thou most merciful Father, who g