There were graves around the
church, and now an uneasy thought obtruded into Robin's breast. What
if the object of his search, which had been so often and so
strangely thwarted, were at the time mouldering in his shroud? What if
his kinsman should glide through yonder gate, and nod and smile to him
in dimly passing by?
"O that any breathing thing were here with me!" said Robin.
Recalling his thoughts from this uncomfortable track, he sent
them over forest, hill, and stream, and attempted to imagine how
that evening of ambiguity and weariness had been spent by his father's
household. He pictured them assembled at the door, beneath the tree,
the great old tree, which had been spared for its huge twisted
trunk, and venerable shade, when a thousand leafy brethren fell.
There, at the going down of the summer sun, it was his father's custom
to perform domestic worship, that the neighbors might come and join
with him like brothers of the family, and that the wayfaring man might
pause to drink at that fountain, and keep his heart pure by freshening
the memory of home. Robin distinguished the seat of every individual
of the little audience; he saw the good man in the midst, holding
the Scriptures in the golden light that fell from the western
clouds; he beheld him close the book, and all rise up to pray.
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