The wheat is ripe for the sickle, and the silken beard of
the corn is waving like a fair girl's tresses in the evening breeze. The
tinkling fall of the cold spring in yonder bank falls soothingly on the
ear. Who comes from that low-roofed log cabin to bring in the pitcher of
water, that pale, careworn, shadowy figure that slowly moves along the
green pasture, as one without hope or joy; her black hair is shared with
silver, her cheek is pale as wax, and her hand is so thin, it looks as
though the light might be seen through if she held it towards the sun? It
is the heart-broken mother of Catharine and Hector Maxwell. Her heart has
been pierced with many sorrows; she cannot yet forget the children of her
love, her first-born girl and boy. Who comes to meet her, and with cheerful
voice chides her for the tear that seems ever to be lingering on that pale
cheek,--yet the premature furrows on that broad, sunburnt, manly brow
speak, too, of inward care? It is the father of Hector and Catharine. Those
two fine, healthy boys, in homespun blouses, that are talking so earnestly,
as they lean across the rail fence of the little wheat field, are Kenneth
and Donald; their sickles are on their arms; they have been reaping.
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