CHAPTER XLVII.
DEATH.
The clover-blossom perfumed the summer air.

The scythe and the sickle still hung in the barn.

Grass and grain swayed and whispered and sparkled in the sun and wind.

June loitered upon all the gentle hills, and peaceful meadows, and winding brook sides.

June breathed in the sweet-brier that climbed the solid stone posts of the gate-way, and clustered along the homely country stone wall.