It is a stray memory of herself in the long ago! It
has wandered into her house of grief, and when it falls under the hand
of the law she feels great guilt for having harbored it. "O, my poor,
dear husband, have I so forgotten you?" she cries in mental sackcloth
and ashes. And then the frailty of human reason and action appear before
her and appall her. The time flies by. Soon still another season is
here, with
A TROOP OF LITTLE TRAITORS, HAPPY MEMORIES,
carrying her "over the hills and far away" into that dim past whence she
emerged, all happiness and health. The conscience now has loosened its
harsh rule. The memories play in her brain like children on a lawn, and
their merry music often drowns the dirges still sadly chanted in her
deeper soul. And thus the winter passes--not in a whirlwind of grief as
did the summer, whose days she never saw, or will not know she saw,
until they come again hot and heavy with the association of her
bitterness. But it is safe to say her dread of those days will exceed
the actual grief they cause her, and she can soon look back upon her
sorrow, and say that she has mourned
RATHER NOT ENOUGH THAN TOO MUCH.
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