He turned from it with pain, and his eye rested upon the
still green valley with evident relief. He thought of his "buried
flower"--"his-golden-haired darlin'," as he used to call her--and
almost fancied that he saw her once more wandering waywardly through its
tangled mazes, gathering berries, or strolling along the green meadow,
with a garland of gowans about her neck. Imagination, indeed, cannot
heighten the image of the dead whom we love; but even if it could, there
was no standard of ideal beauty in her father's mind beyond that of
her own. She had been beautiful; but her beauty was pensive: a fair yet
melancholy child; for the charm that ever encompassed her was one of
sorrow and tenderness. Had she been volatile and mirthful, as children
usually are, he would not have carried so far into his future life the
love of her which he cherished. Another reason why he still loved her
strongly, was a consciousness that her death had been occasioned by
distress and misery; for, as he said, when looking upon the scenes of
her brief but melancholy existence--"Avour-neen machree, I remimber to
see you pickin' the berries; but asthore--asthore--it wasn't for play
you did it. It was to keep away the cuttin' of hunger from your heart!
Of all our childhre every one said that you wor the M'Carthy--never
sayin' much, but the heart in you ever full of goodness and affection.
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