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Updated: June 5, 2025
I will now relate the particulars which I yesterday promised to send you. You heard through your niece of my arrival at Inglefield's, in Solesbury: my inquiries, you may readily suppose, would turn upon the fate of my friend's servant Clithero, whose last disappearance was so strange and abrupt, and of whom, since that time, I had heard nothing.
John Inglefield's rough visage brightened with the glow of his heart, as it grew warm and merry within him; once or twice, even, he laughed till the room rang again, yet seemed startled by the echo of his own mirth. The brave young minister became as frolicsome as a schoolboy. Mary, too, the rosebud, forgot that her twin-blossom had ever been torn from the stem and trampled in the dust.
In answer to Miss Inglefield's interrogatories, he merely said that the traveller inquired whither the road led which, at a small distance forward, struck out of the principal one. Considering the length of the interview, it was not likely that this was the only topic. My determination to confer with him in private acquired new force from these reflections. Inglefield assented to my proposal.
Then, after gazing a moment at the fireside circle, she approached, and took the seat at John Inglefield's right hand, as if it had been reserved on purpose for her. "Here I am, at last, father," said she. "You ate your Thanksgiving dinner without me, but I have come back to spend the evening with you." Yes, it was Prudence Inglefield.
The other places round the hearth were filled by the members of the family, who all sat quietly, while, with a semblance of fantastic merriment, their shadows danced on the wall behind them. One of the group was John Inglefield's son, who had been bred at college, and was now a student of theology at Andover.
The other places round the hearth were filled by the members of the family, who all sat quietly, while, with a semblance of fantastic merriment, their shadows danced on the wall behind then. One of the group was John Inglefield's son, who had been bred at college, and was now a student of theology at Andover.
At that dear name my companion's features were overspread by sorrow. "Your uncle," said he, "is dead." "Dead? Merciful Heaven! And my sisters too! Both?" "Your sisters are alive and well." "Nay," resumed I, in faltering accents, "jest not with my feelings. Be not cruel in your pity. Tell me the truth." "I have said the truth. They are well, at Mr. Inglefield's."
It was published at Washington, and afterward at New York, and made considerable pretensions to a national character. "John Inglefield's Thanksgiving," "The Celestial Railroad," "The Procession of Life," "Fire Worship," "Buds and Bird Voices," and "Roger Malvin's Burial," all appeared in the "Democratic" in 1843.
I was familiar with the way, though trackless and intricate, and I climbed the steeps, crept through the brambles, leaped the rivulets and fences with undeviating aim, till at length I reached the craggy and obscure path which led to Inglefield's house. In a short time, I descried through the dusk the widespread branches of the elm. This tree, however faintly seen, cannot be mistaken for another.
Then, after gazing a moment at the fireside circle, she approached, and took the seat at John Inglefield's right hand, as if it had been reserved on purpose for her. "Here I am, at last, father," said she. "You ate your Thanksgiving dinner without me, but I have come back to spend the evening with you." Yes, it was Prudence Inglefield.
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