From
the life of buried years, ten thousand scenes, all vacancy toother eyes,
enrich those walls for us; the furniture that money cannot buy, that
only the joy and grief of years can purchase. They will spoil our
pleasant home,--will they not, mother?
_Mrs. G_. Pleasant, ay, pleasant indeed, has it been to us. God's will
be done. Do not weep, Annie. We have counted the cost;--many a safe and
happy home there will be in the days to come, whose light shall spring
from this forgotten sorrow. God's will be done.
_Annie_. Mother, they are all ready now; is Helen in her room still?
_Mrs. G_. Go call her, Annie. Hours ago it was I sent her there. I
thought she might get some little sleep ere the summons came. Call her,
my child. How deadly pale she was!
[_Annie goes in_.
* * * * *
DIALOGUE III.
SCENE. _A Chamber partly darkened, the morning air steals faintly
through the half-open shutters. Helen before the mirror,
leaning upon the toilette, her face buried in her hands,
her long hair unbound, and flowing on her shoulders_.
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