thinking. His eyes were
no longer closed, although his book _was_; he leaned forward in his
rustic chair, and commenced to talk aloud--which is said to be a growing
habit with most old men:

'Sixty years of human life!' The words were uttered slowly, as though
their full meaning were felt in the speaker's heart. After a little
while they were repeated: 'Sixty years of human life!' There was a
mournfulness in his voice now; it had sunk to the low, tender tones
that, years before, when his faithful wife vanished from earth, revealed
to all his friends that there was sadness in his heart, while there
seemed cheerfulness in his words. 'Welladay!' he continued; 'I have, at
any rate, been a _successful_ man. My business has prospered beyond my
expectations, and I am what people call a rich man. There was a time
when I feared I should come to want; but now, if I could but think so, I
have enough. And mine has been an industrious life. When I was elected
to the State Senate wasn't my name held up in the newspapers as an
example for young men? Wasn't my reputation admitted to be spotless?
Yes, I _have_ been a successful man--more successful than nearly all who
started with me.'

And he began to look more cheerful and contented. He again looked at his
mansion and broad fields, and again he opened his book. The jokes were
better now than a little while before.

But the bees buzzed on; the trees sang their old soothing song; the air
remained warm; and soon Moses Grant began to nod assent to his book,
though the matters it contained were not of opinion, but of fancy. By
which I mean that he grew sleepy.

* * * * *

Sudden darkness fell upon the earth. The sun, after sending its rays to
glitter in the river so brightly that Moses Grant put his hand over his
eyes as he looked from his arbor-door, went out, and the blackness of
night wrapped itself about the world. The elms, that had rattled their
deep green leaves in the wind, and the birch, that had so gracefully
bowed its slender, yellowish head, were all colorless now. There was no
storm-cloud to veil the heavens, and yet the sad-faced moon came not out
to remind the world of their lost loves and deferred hopes--nor the
stars, to twinkle in their silence, as though there were a great Soul in
the skies that longed to speak to men, but had no utterance save a
thousand love-lit eyes. All was darkness--dense, universal.

Yet Moses Grant had sat un