"
"What a churl he was!" continued Madge, not heeding the words of Peverell;
"I only asked him to keep the grave open till to-morrow, and he denied me!
Only till to-morrow--for then, said I, the cold earth can cover us both.
But he denied me! So I fell upon my knees, beside my Marian's grave, and
prayed that he might never lose a child, to know that blessedness of
sorrow which lies in the thought of soon sleeping with those we have loved
and lost! It was very wrong in me, I know, to wish to call down such
affliction on him--but he denied me--and I had to hear the rattling dust
fall upon her coffin--ay, and to see that dark, deep grave filled up; as
if a mother might not have her own child!"
"Poor afflicted creature!" exclaimed Peverell, in a half whisper to
himself.
"Yes!" said Madge, drying her tears with her hands. "Yes! I have walked
with grief, for my companion in this world, through many a sad and weary
hour. But I shook hands with her, and we parted, at the grave of Marian.
I buried all my troubles there. What is the hour?"
"Hard upon two," replied Peverell.
"Then I must be busy," replied Madge, in a wild, hurried manner, and
smiling at Peverell, with a look of much importance, as if what she had
to do were some profound secret. "You'll not betray me, if I tell you?"
she continued, taking his hand--"Feel!" and she placed it on her heart.
"One, two; one, two; one, two--and so it goes on; it cannot beat beyond
two! Oh, God! in what pain it is before it breaks!"
She now returned to the chair from which she had risen, at the sound of
Peverell's voice.
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