Was it possible? Had she, indeed, been so blind?
Mrs. John rose to her feet, bathed her eyes, straightened her neck-bow,
and crossed the hall to Grandma Burton's room.
"Well, mother, and how are you getting along?" she asked cheerily.
"Jest as nice as can be, daughter,--and ain't this room pretty?"
returned the little old woman eagerly. "Do you know, it seems kind of
natural like; mebbe it's because of that chair there. Seth says it's
almost like his at home."
It was a good beginning, and Mrs. John made the most of it. Under her
skillful guidance Grandma Burton, in less than five minutes, had gone
from the chair to the old clock which her father used to wind, and from
the clock to the bureau where she kept the dead twins' little white
shoes and bonnets. She told, too, of the cherished parlor chairs and
marble-topped table, and of how she and father had saved and saved for
years to buy them; and even now, as she talked, her voice rang with
pride of possession--though only for a moment; it shook then with the
remembrance of loss.
There was no complaint, it is true, no audible longing for lost
treasures. There was only the unwonted joy of pouring into sympathetic
ears the story of things loved and lost--things the very mention of
which brought sweet faint echoes of voices long since silent.
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