In the frame of mind which was natural
to all these blended feelings, I laid my hand on the old-fashioned
brass latch, by which the door of the "triangle" was closed. On
entering the room, I found my sister seated on the "causeuses," the
window open to admit air, the room looking snug but cheerful, and its
occupant's sweet countenance expressive of care, not altogether free
from curiosity. The last time I had been in that room, it was to look
on the pallid features of my mother's corpse, previously to closing
the coffin. All the recollections of that scene rushed upon our minds
at the same instant; and taking a place by the side of Grace, I put an
arm around her waist, drew her to me, and, receiving her head on my
bosom, she wept like a child. My tears could not be altogether
restrained, and several minutes passed in profound silence. No
explanations were needed; I knew what my sister thought and felt, and
she was equally at home as respects my sensations. At length we
regained our self-command, and Grace lifted her head.
"You have not been in this room since, brother?" she observed, half
inquiringly.
"I have not, sister. It is now many years--many for those who are as
young as ourselves."
"Miles, you will think better about that 'seat,' and never abandon
Clawbonny--never destroy this blessed room!"
"I begin to think and feel differently on the subject, from what I
once did.
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