"
As they rode over the downs between home and Baymouth, Pen did not
speak much, though they rode very close together. He was thinking what
a mockery life was, and how men refuse happiness when they may have
it; or, having it, kick it down; or barter it, with their eyes open,
for a little worthless money or beggarly honor. And then the
thought came, what does it matter for the little space? The lives of
the best and purest of us are consumed in a vain desire, and end in a
disappointment: as the dear soul's who sleeps in her grave yonder. She
had her selfish ambition, as much as Caesar had; and died, balked of
her life's longing. The stone covers over our hopes and our memories.
Our place knows us not. "Other people's children are playing on the
grass," he broke out, in a hard voice, "where you and I used to play,
Laura. And you see how the magnolia we planted has grown up since our
time. I have been round to one or two of the cottages where my mother
used to visit. It is scarcely more than a year that she is gone, and
the people whom she used to benefit care no more for her death than
for Queen Anne's.
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