Only once again in his life has Amos Barton visited Milly’s grave. It was in the calm and softened¹ light of an autumnal afternoon, and he was not alone. He held on his arm a young woman, with a sweet, grave face, which strongly recalled the expression of Mrs. Barton’s, but was less lovely in form and colour. She was about thirty, but there were some premature² lines round her mouth and eyes, which told of early anxiety.  
Amos himself was much changed. His thin circlet of hair was nearly white, and his walk was no longer firm and upright. But his glance was calm, and even cheerful, and his neat linen³ told of a woman’s care. Milly did not take all her love from the earth when she died. She had left some of it in Patty’s heart.
 
All the other children were now grown up, and had gone their several ways. Dickey, you will be glad to hear, had shown

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