"It isn't much to tell, but you've no idea how pitiful it was to
see," the girl went on thoughtfully. "Just a year ago this spring,
papa had to go West on business, and he took me with him. We had
to stay two or three days in a little bit of a town up in the
Rocky Mountains, and while we were there, a young woman died. She
had only been married a month, and had just come out from New
England, to live in the cunning little new house that her husband
had built. It was a winter of very deep snow, even for that
region, and when it melted, it grew soft all the way down through,
before it seemed to go away, any at all. The cemetery was away
from the town, up on the side of the mountain, just the loneliest,
most desolate place you can imagine; and it seemed so sad to take
her away and leave her there all alone. It was a long, long
procession, and papa and I stood at the window to watch it, as it
went through the town, and on out into the open country, where no
road had been broken. Then, for a mile or two, the long black line
crawled along over the snow, while the horses floundered about,
half buried in the drifts, and the hearse tipped this way and
that, as first one wheel would sink down out of sight, and then
another.
Pages:
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265