When the July sun is turning the hay-fields yellow, the
children part the bushes in the leafy corner and little Waitstill
Boynton steps cautiously in, to gather one splendid rose, "for
father and mother."
Jacob Cochrane's heart, with all its faults and frailties has
long been at peace. On a chill, dreary night in November, all
that was mortal of him was raised from its unhonored
resting-place not far from the ruins of his old abode, and borne
by three of his disciples far away to another state. The
gravestones were replaced, face downward, deep, deep in the
earth, and the sod laid back upon them, so that no man thence
forward could mark the place of the prophet's transient burial
amid the scenes of his first and only triumphant ministry.
"It is a sad story, Jacob Cochrane's," Waitstill said to her
husband when she first discovered that her children had chosen
the deserted spot for their play; "and yet, Ivory, the red rose
blooms and blooms in the ruins of the man's house, and perhaps,
somewhere in the world, he has left a message that matches the rose."
End of The Project Gutenberg Etext Story Of Waitstill Baxter, by Wiggin
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