I had plans for mending this
part of the record, and marrying her to handsome Captain Devereux, and
making him worthy of her; but somehow I could not. From very early times
I had known the sad story. I had heard her beauty talked about in my
childhood; the rich, clear tints, the delicate outlines, those tender
and pleasant dimples, like the wimpling of a well; an image so pure, and
merry, and melancholy withal, had grown before me, and in twilight
shadows visited the now lonely haunts of her brief hours; even the old
church, in my evening rambles along the uplands of the park, had in my
eyes so saddened a grace in the knowledge that those slender bones lay
beneath its shadows, and all about her was so linked in my mind with
truth, and melancholy, and altogether so sacred, that I could not trifle
with the story, and felt, even when I imagined it, a pang, and a
reproach, as if I had mocked the sadness of little Lily's fate; so,
after some ponderings and trouble of mind I gave it up, and quite
renounced the thought.
And, after all, what difference should it make? Is not the generation
among whom her girlish lot was cast long passed away? A few years more
or less of life.
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