All the little
_agremens_ her son had pictured were there. A little round-table,
covered with a snowy cloth, stood in readiness. An easy-chair was
turned with its back to the fire, and on it a dressing-gown, and
before it lay a pair of soft, warm slippers. The restless, joyous,
anxious mother was reading over, for the twentieth time, her son's
last letter, in which he promised to be home, punctually, on that
evening. Hours flew on, but he did not come. At length, one o'clock
struck, and startled the widow from her meditative posture. "I must go
to bed--I must not look pale with watching, to-morrow, and alarm my
good son. It is just as it was before--he cannot get across the river
to-night. I shall see him early to-morrow." Removing the things from
about the fire, and setting the room in the nicest order, the widow
retired to bed.
She rose early in the morning, to prepare a good breakfast for her
son. "He shall have buckwheat cakes this morning; he is so fond of
them," said she, as she busied herself in preparation.
Everything was in readiness, yet William came not. The morning passed
on. The mother grew impatient.
"It is certainly high time he was here now," said she; "I will go
through the woods, toward the high-road, and see if he is coming," and
putting on her bonnet and shawl, she set out.
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