The deep, sweet, restful night was on. I
don't know that I said it aloud--such things need not be said aloud--but
as I turned almost numbly into the house, stumbling on my way to bed, my
whole being seemed to cry out: "Thank God, thank God!"
XI
AN OLD MAN
Today I saw Uncle Richard Summers walking in the town road: and cannot
get him out of my mind. I think I never knew any one who wears so
plainly the garment of Detached Old Age as he. One would not now think
of calling him a farmer, any more than one would think of calling him a
doctor, or a lawyer, or a justice of the peace. No one would think now
of calling him "Squire Summers," though he bore that name with no small
credit many years ago. He is no longer known as hardworking, or able, or
grasping, or rich, or wicked: he is just Old. Everything seems to have
been stripped away from Uncle Richard except age.
How well I remember the first time Uncle Richard Summers impressed
himself upon my mind. It was after the funeral of his old wife, now
several years ago. I saw him standing at the open grave with his
broad-brimmed felt hat held at his breast. His head was bowed and his
thin, soft, white hair stirred in the warm breeze. I wondered at his
quietude.
Pages:
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136