FEARS AND HOPES.

Many thoughts filled my mind after what Clara had said, and I thought
much of her beautiful faith as to her husband and his waiting for her;
of her trust in his coming, and of the reality with which came into her
existence this wonderful future that waits for us all if (and sometimes
this little conjunction assumed wonderful proportions) immortality
really be ours. My heart told me we were to live, and in my higher
thoughts I could sometimes see the light that flooded those old hills
near our home, reaching far on to where all those of our household were
waiting. I never at these times could think of our beloved friends, my
blessed grandmother, of whom we did not even possess a daguerreotype, as
an angelic and unearthly something with wings, but rather as a real
being, whose face I should recognize, whose hands should touch my own,
while her lips would move, and in her dear old way she would say "Come
in, Emily," just as she used to when I went as a child to her door, and
looked in at her, as she lay on her bed, partly paralyzed. Her hair was
white with the cares of seventy-four winters, and her eyes filled then
with such a pleasant light. She had lived with us, this dear Grandma
Northrop, for years. Hal had always been her special charge; she called
him her boy, and up to the last month of her life mended his stockings
first; she would go to the door and watch him go for the cows, and when
he came back over the west meadows, would say with admiration:

"That boy is worth a dozen such as Ben Davis; he'll do something great
before he dies."

My mother spoke often of her, and also recalled her saying, "I hope
angels can see men," meaning that she could not bear the thought of
leaving Hal.

I was only five years old when she left us, still her memory was sacred
to me, and through the summer days I covered her grave with everlasting
flowers and daisies. I remembered her as genial, though somewhat
peculiar in her ways; she had a warm appreciation of wit, and was ever
ready with answers. Mother remembered and told me so many of her happy
sayings that it kept her memory fresh among us all, and if angels could
both see and hear men, she must have felt grateful that we remembered
her with such pleasure. I treasured the hoop ear-rings which she wore,
and which bore her initials, "E.L.N." Her name was Elizabeth, but she
was called by all "Betsey." To Hal she had left two silver spoons and
her snuff-box. He