They stopped, and we were
passing a few pleasant words, when there came by two persons,
plainly, almost coarsely dressed--a mother and her daughter. Both
had bundles in their hands. Over the mother's face a veil was drawn,
and as she passed, with evidently quickening steps, she turned
herself partly away. The daughter looked at us steadily from her
calm blue eyes, in which you saw a shade of sadness, as though
already many hopes had failed. Her face was pale and placid, but
touched you with its expression of half-concealed suffering, as if,
young as she was, some lessons of pain and endurance had already
been learned.
"Who are they?" asked Mrs. Wallingford.
"Delia Floyd and her daughter," said I.
No remark was made. If my ears did not deceive me, I heard a faint
sigh pass the lips of Mr. Wallingford.
I spoke to my horse, and, bowing mutually, we passed on our ways.
"Twenty years ago, and now!" said I to myself, falling into a sober
mood, as thought went back to the sweet, fragrant morning of Delia's
life, and I saw it in contrast with this dreary autumn.
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