She had always
thought she would like to lie there too when her work was done. There
were some of the graves which she did not know, but one was her poor
young mother's, who had left her no inheritance except some traits
that had won Nan many friends; all her evil gifts had been buried with
her, the neighbors had said, when the girl was out of hearing, that
very afternoon.
There was a strange fascination about these river uplands; no place
was so dear to Nan, and yet she often thought with a shudder of the
story of those footprints which had sought the river's brink, and then
turned back. Perhaps, made pure and strong in a better world, in which
some lingering love and faith had given her the true direction at
last, where even her love for her child had saved her, the mother had
been still taking care of little Nan and guiding her. Perhaps she had
helped to make sure of the blessings her own life had lost, of truth
and whiteness of soul and usefulness; and so had been still bringing
her child in her arms toward the great shelter and home, as she had
toiled in her fright and weakness that dark and miserable night toward
the house on the hill.
And Nan stood on the shore while the warm wind that gently blew her
hair felt almost like a hand, and presently she went closer to the
river, and looked far across it and beyond it to the hills. The eagles
swung to and fro above the water, but she looked beyond them into the
sky. The soft air and the sunshine came close to her; the trees stood
about and seemed to watch her; and suddenly she reached her hands
upward in an ecstasy of life and strength and gladness.
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