Going Home

The Village hearse was waiting at Snowdon depot, and close beside it
stood the carriage from Terrace Hill; the one sent there for Adah, the
other for her husband, whose lifeblood, so freely shed, had wiped away
all stains upon his memory, and enshrined him in the hearts of Snowdon's
people as a martyr. He was the first dead soldier returned to them, his
the first soldier's grave in their churchyard; and so a goodly throng
were there, with plaintive fife and muffled drum, to do him honor. His
major was coming with him, it was said--Major Stanley, who had himself
been found, in a half-fainting condition watching by the dead--Major
Stanley, who had seen that the body was embalmed, had written to the
wife, and had attended to everything, even to coming on himself by way
of showing his respect. Death is a great softener of errors; and the
village people, who could not remember a time when they had not disliked
John Richards, forgot his faults now that he was dead.

It seemed a long-time-waiting for the train, but it came at last, and
the crowd involuntarily made a movement forward, and then drew back as a
tall figure appeared upon the platform, his stylish uniform betokening
an officer of rank, and his manner showing plainly that he was master of
ceremonies.

"Major Stanley," ran in a whisper through the crowd, whose wonder
increased when another, and, if possible, a finer-looking man, emerged
into view, his right arm in a sling, and his face pale and worn, from
the effects of recent illness. He had not been expected, and many
curious glances were cast at him as, slowly descending the steps, he
gave his well hand to the lady following close behind, Mrs. Worthington;
they knew her, and recognized also the two young ladies, Alice and Adah,
as they sprang from the car. Poor Adah! how she shrank from the public
gaze, shuddering as on her way to the carriage she passed the long box
the men were handling so carefully.