And the same flood, which should have
carried the headless body as far as Cairo, or even farther on down the
Mississippi, had rejected it in an eddy below a clay bluff at
Sewickley, with its pitiful covering washed from the scar.
Well, it is all over now. Mr Ladley is dead, and Alice Murray, and
even Peter lies in the yard. Mr Reynolds made a small wooden cross
over Peter's grave, and carved "Till we meet again" on it. I dare say
the next flood will find it in Molly Maguire's kitchen.
Mr Howell and Lida are married. Mr Howell inherited some money, I
believe, and what with that and Lida declaring she would either marry
him in a church or run off to Steubenville, Ohio, Alma had to consent.
I went to the wedding and stood near the door, while Alma swept in, in
lavender chiffon and rose point lace. She has not improved with age,
has Alma. But Lida? Lida, under my mother's wedding veil, with her
eyes like stars, seeing no one in the church in all that throng but
the boy who waited at the end of the long church aisle-I wanted to run
out and claim her, my own blood, my more than child.
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