Faded and thin is the hair he so lovingly pressed From my girlish brow, that twilight in happy May; “Sweetheart,” he said, “your hair outshines the light in the west;” Golden hair and golden sunset,--both are gray. ’Twas then he set this ring on my hand, as he murmured low, Words that come back to me sweet and sad as my mother’s funeral hymn: “Dear hand, it shall guide me forevermore as now!” It is coarse with time and toil; it has lost its hold on him.…
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