“Flow, flow, flow down river, Carry me down to the sea! Ropes of silk and a cedar paddle, For to set my spirit free. Roll, roll, rolling billow; Smooth, smooth my sleepy pillow: Silver sails and a cedar paddle, For to set my spirit free! “Long, long work and weeping, Trying for to do my best: Soon, soon, time for sleeping; Cover me up to rest! Roll, roll, rolling billow, Smooth, smooth my sleepy pillow, Golden masts and a cedar paddle, For to set my spirit free!” One day she was singing this, softer and softer, till she thought Grandfather was fast asleep. Lower and lower sank the lulling voice, till at length it died away in a sigh. Then she sat silent, looking at him; at the good white head, the broad forehead, with its strong lines of toil and thought, all the kind face that she knew and loved well now. She sighed again, not knowing that she did; and at that Grandfather opened his eyes without stirring and looked at her—oh, so kindly! “Little Grandmother,” he said. “You know I am going soon?” “Yes, Grandfather!” said she. “You have been a good, good child,” said Grandfather; “a good and faithful child, and when I go my blessing stays with you. You are young, and I want you to be happy. Perhaps you will like to marry Manuel, my dear?” Grandmother lifted her clear eyes to his. “Yes, Grandfather!” she said. “He is not good enough for you,” said Grandfather, “but—well! well! you are both young, both young, and youth is a great thing. I was young myself—a long, long time ago, my dear.” He was silent. Grandmother knelt down beside him, and took his hand in her own two, stroking it and singing softly. “Silver sails and a cedar paddle, For to set my spirit free.” Presently he looked up, and spoke hurriedly, in a strange, confused voice. “Mary!” he said. “Are you there?” Now Mary was the name of the wife of his youth. Grandmother was silent. “Are you there, Mary?” asked the old man impatiently. “‘Tis so dark I can’t see you.” “Yes, I am here!” said Grandmother. “‘Tis time to light up!” said Grandfather. “We mustn’t sit here in the dark like old folks, Mary. Let me get up and light the lamps.” The afternoon light fell clear on his face with its open sightless eyes, and on the angel face turned up to it in faithful love. “Wait just a little, John,” said Grandmother. “I—I love the twilight; ’tis restful. Let—let me rest a bit before we light up, won’t you?” “Surely, Mary; surely, my dear. We’ll rest together then; I—I am tired too, I—think.” There was a long silence. The light was growing softer, fainter; the old clock ticked steadily; a coal tinkled from the fire. “Mary—you are there?” “Yes, dear!” “Song—the sleepy song; I think I shall sleep.” Hush! rest, dear white head, on my breast; close, poor eyes that cannot see the light. Rest, rest, in the quiet twilight!