Or a green fair field, with one little garden bed.
Meg was glad the little mound looked to the east; the suns died
behind it--the orange and yellow and purple suns she could not
bear to watch ever again while she lived.
But away in the east they rose tenderly always, and the light crept
up across the sky to the hill-top in delicate pinks and trembling
blues and brightening greys, but never fiery, yellow streaks, that
made the eyes ache with hot tears.
There was a moon making it white and beautiful when they said
good-bye to it on the last day.
They plucked a blade or two of grass each from the fresh turfs,
and turned away. Nobody cried; the white stillness of the far moon,
the pale, hanging stars, the faint wind stirring the wattles; held
back their tears till they had closed the little gate behind them
and left her alone on the quiet hill-top. Then they went-back
to Misrule, each to pickup the thread of life and go on with the
weaving that, thank God, must be done, or hearts would break
every day.
Meg had grown older; she would never be quite so young again as
she had been before that red sunset sank into her soul.
There was a deeper light in her eyes; such tears as she had wept
clear the sight till life becomes a thing more distinct and
far-reaching.
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