gay-hearted and loved by many. He saw her making a stolen
match with himself; passed in review the long years of alienation
from her family, the struggle with poverty, and, saddest of
all, the row of little gravestones which told of the burial of the
best of her youth. He saw the day finally when, a worn, saddened
woman, she at last was in the possession of wealth, to
find in it no pleasure, yet to turn eagerly, and apparently with
comfort, to the teachings of that strange combination of fire
and logic, Jonathan Edwards. He recalled the two sermons during
Edwards's brief term as president of Nassau Hall, which
moved him so little, yet which had convinced Mrs. Meredith
that her dead babies had been doomed to eternal punishment
and had made her the stern, unyielding woman she was. The
squire was too hearty an animal, and lived too much in the
open air, to be given to introspective thought, but he shook
his head. "A strange warp and woof we weave of the skein,"
he sighed, "that sorrow for the dead should harden us to the
living." Mr. Meredith rose, went upstairs, and rapped at a
door. Getting no reply, after a repetition of the knock, he
went in.

A glance revealed what at first sight looked like a crumpled
heap of clothes upon the bed, but after more careful scrutiny
the mass was found to have a head, very much buried between
two pillows, and the due quantity of arms and legs. Walking
to the bed, the squire put his hand on the bundle.

"There, lass," he said, "'t is nought to make such a pother
about."