Dulan," said Alice, kindly, "if we should not meet
again before your departure."
"Farewell, sweet Alice," murmured William Dulan as he left the house.
* * * * *
It was a glorious Sabbath morning early in August. The widow's
cottage gleamed in the dark bosom of the wood like a gem in the
tresses of beauty. Everything wore its brightest aspect. The windows
of the little parlor were open, and the songs of birds and the perfume
of flowers were wafted through them. But the little breakfast-table,
with its snowy cloth and its one plate, cup and saucer, looked almost
piteous from its solitude. Upon the clean white coverlet of the bed
sat the widow's little black bonnet and shawl, prayer-book, and clean
pocket handkerchief, folded with its sprig of lavender. It was
Communion Sunday, and the widow would not miss going to church on any
account. She dispatched her breakfast quickly--poor thing! she had not
much appetite. She had sat up half the night previous, awaiting the
arrival of William, but he had not come; and a man from the village
had informed her that the mail-stage had arrived on the night previous
without any passengers. As the stage would not pass again for a week,
the widow could not expect to see or hear from her son for that length
of time.
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