O my mother! could they not spare thee even in thy grave, where the wicked are said to cease from troubling and the weary are at rest?
Could they not let thee sleep in peace, thou tempest-tost and weary hearted, even in the dark and narrow house, sacred from the footstep of the living?
Another thundering burst of applause called my spirit from the grass-grown sod, made damp and green by the willow's shade, to the crowded church and the bustle and confusion of life.

Then followed the presentation of the parchment rolls and the ceremonies usual at the winding up of this time-honored day.

It all seemed like unmeaning mummery to me.

The majestic president, with his little flat black cap, set like a tile on the top of his head, was a man of pasteboard and springs, and even the beautiful figures that lighted up the walls had lost their coloring and life.

There was, indeed, a wondrous change, independent of that within my own soul.