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Updated: May 13, 2025
With a tender smile that lent strange beauty to her pallid, grief-worn face she continued her survey. She had previously noticed an old priest, whose countenance bore the impress of genuine kindness of heart. She soon found him again among the travellers sleeping on the straw; but the old man's slumber was so sound that she felt reluctant to wake him.
It was Grif indeed; for as she neared the place where he stood, she saw his face in the lamp-light, a grief-worn, pallid face, changed and haggard and desperate, a sight that made her cry out aloud. He had not seen her or even heard her. He stood there looking toward the house she had left, and seeing, as it seemed, nothing else. Only the darkness had hidden her from him.
The old woman who passed by the pond that morning gathering flowers, and smiling as if she felt the delight of a child the smile of a child on the mask of grief-worn age saw his clothes and then his body floating upward helpless from the bottom. She seized his arm, and pulled him up on the low bank. He gasped a little and was able to thank her.
His step became feeble, his form emaciate, his countenance haggard. A weary, grief-worn pilgrim, he was in a mood to welcome death, as life presented him nothing more to hope for. A slow fever aggravated by the climate, placed him upon a sick bed.
The frame at which she had worked, was put away upon a shelf and covered up. The chair in which she had sat, was turned against the wall. A history was written in these little things, and in Meg's grief-worn face. Oh! who could fail to read it! Meg strained her eyes upon her work until it was too dark to see the threads; and when the night closed in, she lighted her feeble candle and worked on.
It was strange that dreams of joy should come in the midst of so much anguish, so that a smile should actually play on the grief-worn features of Hadassah. Was some good spirit whispering in her ear, "While you are sleeping your son is praying. Your supplications for him are answered at last?" But Hadassah lost little time in sleep.
With a tender smile that lent strange beauty to her pallid, grief-worn face she continued her survey. She had previously noticed an old priest, whose countenance bore the impress of genuine kindness of heart. She soon found him again among the travellers sleeping on the straw; but the old man's slumber was so sound that she felt reluctant to wake him.
I ask. A gleam of dreamy ecstasy glides over her grief-worn face which seems to flush and grow softer of outline. "Home to freedom," she whispers down to me and her eyes burn. "Where is your home?" "In the desert," she cries. "Here I play for their dances; there I am queen. My name is Thea and it is resonant through storms.
My spent passions gradually sunk into a lurid calm; and by degrees I have subsided into the time-settled sorrow of the sable-widower, who, wiping away the decent tear, lifts up his grief-worn eye to look-for another wife.
What a strange awakening it was to his son, when, in the gray twilight of the breaking day, he looked at Ascher more closely. In his imagination Ephraim had pictured a wan, grief-worn figure, and now he saw before him a strong, well- built man, who certainly did not present the appearance of a person who had just emerged from the dank atmosphere of a prison!
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