"
He never mentioned the subject again.
Richard Hilton passed out of her knowledge shortly after her
meeting with him in Philadelphia. She heard, indeed, that his
headlong career of dissipation was not arrested,--that his friends
had given him up as hopelessly ruined,--and, finally, that he had
left the city. After that, all reports ceased. He was either
dead, or reclaimed and leading a better life, somewhere far away.
Dead, she believed--almost hoped; for in that case might he not now
be enjoying the ineffable rest and peace which she trusted might be
her portion? It was better to think of him as a purified spirit,
waiting to meet her in a holier communion, than to know that he was
still bearing the burden of a soiled and blighted life. In any
case, her own future was plain and clear. It was simply a
prolongation of the present--an alternation of seed-time and
harvest, filled with humble duties and cares, until the Master
should bid her lay down her load and follow Him.
Friend Mitchenor bought a small cottage adjacent to his son's farm,
in a community which consisted mostly of Friends, and not far from
the large old meeting-house in which the Quarterly Meetings were
held.
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