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A WONDERFUL CORNER for echoes, it has been remarked, that
corner where the Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden
thread which bound her husband, and her father, and herself, and
her old directress and companion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat
in the still house in the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to
the echoing footsteps of years.

At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young
wife, when her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her
eyes would be dimmed. For, there was something coming in the
echoes, something light, afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that
stirred her heart too much. Fluttering hopes and doubts-hopes, of
a love as yet unknown to her: doubts, of her remaining upon earth,
to enjoy that new delight-divided her breast. Among the echoes
then, there would arise the sound of footsteps at her own early
grave; and thoughts of the husband who would be left so desolate,
and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her eyes, and
broke like waves.

That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then,
among the advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet
and the sound of her prattling words. Let greater echoes resound
as they would, the young mother at the cradle side could always
hear those coming. They came, and the shady house was sunny
with a child’s laugh, and the Divine friend of children, to whom in
her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take her child in his
arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred joy to her.
Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all
together, weaving the service of her happy influence through the
tissue of all their lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie
heard in the echoes of years none but friendly and soothing
sounds. Her husband’s step was strong and prosperous among
them; her father’s firm and equal. Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of
string, awakening the echoes, as an unruly charger, whip-
corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the plane-tree in
the garden!

Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were
not harsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a
halo on a pillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said,
with a radiant smile, “Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to
leave you both, and to leave my pretty sister; but I am called, and I
must go!” those were not tears all of agony that wetted his young
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