The old
year gone, the new year had begun. His robes were white and glistening,
his voice was mirthful, and his step buoyant; health and vigor braced
his limbs. He, too, bore in his hand a scroll, but white as the
unsullied snow; not a line was yet traced upon its pure surface, except
the title, Record of 1872. I gazed on its fresh and gladsome visage with
mingled emotions of sorrow and joy, and I breathed my prayer for
forgiveness, for the follies and sins of the departed year.
EARNEST HARWOOD;
OR,
THE ADOPTED SON.
CHAPTER I.
It was on a pleasant afternoon, in the month of June, some years ago,
that a small funeral procession might have been seen slowly wending its
way to the church-yard from the dwelling of Mr. Humphrey, in the village
of Walden in one of the Eastern States. Although a deep seriousness
pervaded the small company, and the manner of each was subdued, yet
there were no visible tokens of that strong grief which overwhelms the
soul when the ties of nature are rent asunder; for, with the exception
of a little boy, apparently about five years of age, whom Mr. Humphrey
kindly led by the hand, no one present bore any relationship to the
deceased.
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