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Bacheller, Irving, 1859-1950

"Eben Holden, a tale of the north country"

I, who had come there a homeless
orphan in a basket, and who, with the God-given eloquence of
childhood had brought them to take me to their hearts and the old
man that was with me as well, was now the only son left to
Elizabeth and David Brower. There were those who called it folly
at the time they took us in, I have heard, but he who shall read this
history to the end shall see how that kind of folly may profit one or
even many here in this hard world.
It was a gloomy summer for all of us. The industry and patience
with which Hope bore her trial, night and day, is the sweetest
recollection of my youth. It brought to her young face a tender
soberness of womanhood - a subtle change of expression that
made her all the more dear to me. Every day, rain or shine, the old
doctor had come to visit his patient, sometimes sitting an hour and
gazing thoughtfully in his face, occasionally asking a question, or
telling a quaint anecdote. And then came the end.
The sky was cold and grey in the late autumn and the leaves were
drifted deep in the edge of the woodlands when Hope and I went
away to school together at Hillsborough.


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