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"It had to get itself said or sung, you know, that thought that haunted me so yesterday at 'The Cedars. I daresay it is very bad poetry, though." Parson Dorrance unfolded the paper, and read the following poem:
I know very well no day dies; but we can't see the especial good of each single day by itself. That is all I meant." Parson Dorrance came closer to Mercy: they were both standing. He laid one hand on her' head, and said, "Child, it was a 'sweet yesterday' wasn't it?" "Oh, yes," said Mercy, still absorbed in the thought of the poem. "The day was as sweet as the flowers.
The next thing I heard was not, as I expected, that he and his wife had quarrelled, or that he was going to challenge Frederic for having belied him, but that poor Dorrance was very ill with some affection of the brain. It was not until a year later just after his death that people began to talk about the strange carryings-on at Ridgeley; how Mr. and Mrs.
Dorrance is my husband, Mammy! I shall not let you speak disrespectfully of him. He does what he believes to be right and just," returned Mabel, sternly. "I ain't a-goin' to arger that with you, my sugar-plum! You're right to stand up for him. I beg your pardon ef I've seemed sassy or hurt your feelin's. And I dar' say, there mayn't be nothin' wuss 'bout him nor his outside.
Dorrance in the house, but supposed him to be a visitor at Ridgeley and a relative of Mrs. Aylett, having heard that her maiden name was Dorrance. As to his being your husband, it did not at first occur to him, so bewildered was he by your meeting and the thoughts awakened by it. But at sight of HER the truth rushed over him, nearly depriving him of his wits.
Dorrance persevered, keeping to the scent of his game, as a trained pointer scours a stubble-field, narrowing his beat at every circuit; "and the hearts of those who live in them are warm and constant. It is not always true that "'The cold in clime are cold in blood; Their love can scarce deserve the name.
Darling," she added, "at those very times when you see me seem so absorbed and happy in company, I am most likely thinking about the last time you looked into my face, or the next time you will." And for once Stephen was satisfied. The picnic at which Mercy met Parson Dorrance had taken place on a mountain some six miles south-west of Penfield.
Mabel's arm was about his neck, her hand upon his mouth. "No more! no more! if you love me!" she whispered in an agony. "Should he guess all, he would murder her!" "You are prepared to certify that he is dead NOW, are you, Mr. Dorrance?" queried Winston, suspicious of this by-play. "I am!" sulkily. "It is a pity!" was the ambiguous rejoinder. Something clicked upon the hearth.
And, as one of poor Mercy's many devices for keeping up with her conscience a semblance of honesty in the matter of Stephen was the entire omission of all reference to him in her conversation, nothing occurred to remind her friends of him. Parson Dorrance, indeed, had said to her one day, "You never speak of Mr. White, Mercy. Is he an agreeable and kind landlord?"
THE only malady that put Herbert Dorrance in frequent and unpleasant remembrance of his mortality was a fierce headache, which had of late years supervened upon any imprudence in diet, and upon excessive agitation of mind or physical exertion.
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