f the
future, and of their happiness.

"It was Anna Maria who first mentioned Susanna's name. 'It is so long
since she has written,' she said. 'I have received no answer to two
letters. Can she be coming, Edwin? She knows that to-morrow is to be our
wedding-day.'

"'Susanna?' I replied. 'No, Anna Maria, she is _not_ coming!'

"'Have you news?' they asked, both together.

"'She is married, Anna Maria, and is no longer in Europe.'

"Neither of them answered.

"'And she lays the child on your heart.'

"Then she bent over and kissed the baby, who had gone to sleep on her
lap. 'Edwin,' she whispered, in a strangely faltering voice, 'this is
the wedding present from my only brother!'"

* * * * *

So ended the manuscript. It was the third evening of the reading. The
young man laid the sheets on the table and looked in the agitated face
of his wife. "My mother died in America," he said. "Mother Anna Maria
tied a strip of crape about my arm one day, and cried, and kissed me so
often; we were living right here in Buetze then; and then we went up to
Aunt Rosamond, and she cried too, and kissed me. They told me that my
mother was dead, but I did not understand them, because I saw Anna Maria
before me, and I did not know or care to know any mother but her."

The young wife took his hand. She was about to speak, but did not, for
just then the door opened and a tall woman's figure crossed the
threshold.

"Mother!" they cried, both springing up, "Mother Anna Maria!" And the
young man tenderly put his arm around her and kissed her hand.

"Good evening, children," she said simply, and her eyes looked gently
over to them, under the white hair.

"Oh, dearest mother, how charming of you!" cried the young wife,
exultingly. "How are father and the sisters?"

"Edwin is well," she replied; "and the sisters are looking forward to
Sunday, when you are coming over."

"And you, mother?"

"Well, I had a longing to see my eldest daughter and my only son," she
said lovingly; "and besides, to-day is Martinmas."

She let bonnet and cloak be taken off, and sat down on the sofa. "What
have you there?" she asked, turning over the papers. Then her eyes
rested upon them; she read, and a delicate blush gradually mounted to
her face.

"Those were the sad years," she whispered; "now come the bright ones.
When I am dead then write underneath:

"'She was the happiest of wives, the most beloved of mothers!'"