Hear that flute. It comes from among those trees by the river side.
_Annie_. It is the shower that has freshened every thing, and made the
birds so musical. You should stand in the door below, as I did just now,
to see the fort and the moistened woods stands out from that black sky,
with all this brightness blazing on them.
_Helen_. 'Tis lovely--all.
_Annie_. There goes the last golden rim over the blackening woods;
already even a shade of tender mourning steals over all things, the very
children's voices under this tree,--how soft they grow.
_Helen_. Will the day come when we shall see him sink, for the last
time, behind those hills?
_Annie_. Nay, Helen, why do you mar this lovely hour with a thought like
that?
_Helen_. And in another life, shall we see light, when his, for us,
shines no more?--What sound is that?
_Annie_. That faint cry from the woods?
_Helen_. No,--more distant,--far off as the horizon, like some mighty
murmur, faintly borne, it came.
_Annie_. I wish that we had gone to-day. I do not like this waiting
until Thursday;--just one of that elder brother's foolish whims it was.
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