Bressant

For nothing less than that can save him now! His eyes see no longer; his

feet stumble in ignorance; he sleeps, and dreams of events which

happened--was it long ago?--upon this road. Here he met and talked with

Cornelia, that autumn day. Back there, they paused on the brow of the

hill, one moonlight night, was that so long ago, too? Here, some time in

the past, he had found a lifeless body in the snow, clad in a bridal

dress; here, he had caught a runaway horse by the head, and-He fell headlong to the ground. The shock partly awoke him. He struggled

up to his knees--was there any one assisting him?--another struggle--he

was on his feet. Right before him lay the house--the old Parsonage;

there were the gate, the path, the porch. He made a final effort--it

forced a deadly sweat from his forehead--and still there was a vague

sense of being supported and directed by some one--he could not stop to

see or question who; but, had it not been for that support, he must have

failed. The gate opened, with its old creak and rattle, before him; a

hand he saw not held it till he passed through.

Now, at the moment when he had fallen in the road, of the three who had

all along been awaiting him within--of these three, two only were left.

But, so quietly had the third departed, the others perceived not that

she was gone. The features, which remained, wore an expression of

angelic happiness. It was as she had wished.

At the same moment, too, through a rift in the dull sky, a little gleam

of sunshine--the first of that gray day--descended, and rested upon

Bressant. It accompanied him to the gate, and, still keeping close to

him, slipped up the path between the trees, and even followed him on to

the porch, where it brightened about him, as he put his hand to the

latch. Was it a symbol of some loving spirit, newly set free from its

mortal body, come to watch over him for evermore?

An old woman, who stood without clutching the palings of the gate, saw

Bressant open the door and pass inward, and the sunshine entered with

him. The door was left ajar--might she not enter too? Just then, a

little ormolu clock, on the mantel-piece inside, gave a preliminary

whirr, and hastily struck the hour of noon. As if in answer to a signal,

the sun smiled broadly forth, and quite transfigured the weather-beaten

old Parsonage.