April showers have
wakened to life the fair spring blossoms, whose delicate perfume,
mingling with the evening air, steals through the open casement,
and kisses the bright face of Dora, beautiful now as when she
first called him her husband who sits beside her, and who each day
blesses her as his choicest treasure.
On the balcony without, in a large-armed willow chair, is seated
an old man, and as the fading sunlight falls around him, a bright-
haired little girl, not yet two years of age, climbs upon his
knee, and winding her chubby arms around his neck lisps the name
of "Grandpa," and the old man, folding her to his bosom, sings to
her softly and low of _another Fannie_, whose eyes of blue
were much like those which look so lovingly into his face. Anon
darkness steals over all but the new moon, "hanging like a silver
thread in the western sky," shows us where Howard Hastings is
sitting, still with Dora at his side.
On the balcony, all is silent; the tremulous voice has ceased; the
blue-eyed child no longer listens; old age and infancy sleep
sweetly now together; the song is ended; the story is done.
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