But the curse came upon him—­the spell of unrest—­
Like a voice calling out of the infinite West—­
And Archibald Grace, he was going—­and so
We gave Rob our blessing, and jest let him go!

There, Cleo, your father is out at the gate: 
Be spry as a cricket; he don’t like to wait! 
Here’s the firkin o’ butter, as yellow as gold—­
And the eggs, in this basket—­ten dozen all told. 
Tell father be sure and remember the tea—­
And the spice and the yard o’ green gingham for me;
And the sugar for baking:—­and ask him to go
To the office—­there might be a letter, you know!

May Providence go with your father to town,
And soften the heart o’ this rich Captain Brown. 
He’s the stranger that’s buying the Sunnyside place,
We all thought was willed to poor Archibald Grace,
Along with the mortgage that’s jest falling due,
And that father allowed Archie Grace would renew;
And, Cleo, I reckon that father will sell
The Croft, and the little real Alderney, Bel. 
You raised her, I know; and it’s hard she must go;
But father will pay every dollar we owe;
It’s his way, to be honest and fair as the day;
And he always was dreadfully set in his way.

I try to find comfort in thinking, my dear,
That things would be different if Robert was here;
I guess he’d a stayed but for Archibald Grace. 
And helped with the chores and looked after the place;
But Archie, he heard from that Eben Carew,
And went wild to go off to the gold-diggings, too;
And so they must up and meander out West,
And now they are murdered—­or missing, at best—­
Surprised by that bloody, marauding “Red Wing,”
’Way out in the Yellowstone country, last spring.

No wonder, Cleora, I’m getting so gray! 
I grieve for my lost darling day after day;
And, Cleo, my daughter, don’t mind if it’s true,
But I reckon I’ve guessed about Archie and you! 
And the Lord knows our burdens are grievous to bear,
But there’s still a bright edge to my cloud of despair,
And somehow I hear, like a tune in my head: 
“The boys are coming!  The boys aren’t dead!”

So to-morrow, for dear father’s sake, we will try
To make the day seem like Thanksgivings gone by;
And tho’ we mayn’t see where Thanksgiving comes in,
Things were never so bad yet as things might a-been. 
But it’s nigh time the kettle was hung on the crane,
And somebody’s driving full tilt up the lane—­

For the land’s sake!  Cleora, you’re dropping that tray
O’ blue willow tea-cups!  What startled you?  Hey? 
You’re white as a ghost—­Why, here’s father from town! 
And who are those men, daughter, helping him down? 
Run! open the door!  There’s a whirr in my head,
And the tune’s getting louder—­“The boys aren’t dead!”
Cleora!  That voice—­it is Robert!—­O, Lord! 
I have leaned on Thy promise, and trusted Thy word,
And out of the midst of great darkness and night
Thy mercy has led me again to the light!