Over Nora's Grave

Oh, Mother Earth! upon thy lap,
Thy weary ones receiving,
And o'er them, silent as a dream,
Thy grassy mantle weaving,
Fold softly, in thy long embrace,
That heart so worn and broken,
And cool its pulse of fire beneath
Thy shadows old and oaken.
Shut out from her the bitter word,
And serpent hiss of scorning:
Nor let the storms of yesterday
Disturb her quiet morning.

--Whittier.

When the funeral ceremonies were over and the mourners were coming away
from the grave, Mr. Wynne turned to them and said: "Friends, I wish to have some conversation with Hannah Worth, if you
will excuse me."

And the humble group, with the exception of Reuben Gray, took leave of
Hannah and dispersed to their several homes. Reuben waited outside for
the end of the parson's interview with his betrothed.

"This is a great trial to you, my poor girl; may the Lord support you
under it!" said Mr. Wynne, as they entered the hut and sat down.

Hannah sobbed.

"I suppose it was the discovery of Mr. Brudenell's first marriage that
killed her?"

"Yes, sir," sobbed Hannah.

"Ah! I often read and speak of the depravity of human nature; but I
could not have believed Herman Brudenell capable of so black a crime,"
said Mr. Wynne, with a shudder.

"Sir," replied Hannah, resolved to do justice in spite of her bleeding
heart, "he isn't so guilty as you judge him to be. When he married Norah
he believed that his wife had been killed in a great railway crash, for
so it was reported in all the newspaper accounts of the accident; and he
never saw it contradicted."