Free Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Other Stories by Washington Irving Page B

altered fortunes.
    Some days afterwards he called upon me in the evening. He had disposed of his dwelling house and taken a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establishment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold excepting his wife’s Harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself—it belonged to the little story of their loves—for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he had leant over that instrument and listened to the melting tones of her voice.—I could not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband.
    He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all day, superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become strongly interested in the progress of this family story and as it was a fine evening I offered to accompany him.
    He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as we walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing.
    â€œPoor Mary!” at length broke with a heavy sigh from his lips.
    â€œAnd what of her,” asked I, “has any thing happened to her?”
    â€œWhat,” said he, darting an impatient glance, “is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation—to be caged in a miserable cottage—to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her wretched habitation?”
    â€œHas she then repined at the change?”
    â€œRepined!—she has been nothing but sweetness and good humour. Indeed she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her—she has been to me all love and tenderness and comfort!”
    â€œAdmirable girl!” exclaimed I. “You call yourself poor my friend; you never were so rich—you never knew the boundless treasures of excellence you possessed in that woman.”
    â€œOh, but my friend—if this first meeting at the cottage were over—I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day of real experience. She has been introduced into our humble dwelling. She has been employed all day in arranging its miserable equipments. She has for the first time known the fatigues of domestic employment—She has for the first time looked around her on a home destitute of every thing elegant,—almost of every thing convenient, and may now be sitting down exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty.”
    There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not gainsay—so we walked on in silence.
    After turning from the main road up a narrow lane so thickly shaded by forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had over run one end with a profusion of foliage—a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it, and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door and on the grass plot in front. A small wicket gate opened upon a foot path that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached we heard the sound of music.—Leslie grasped my arm—we paused and listened. It was Mary’s voice singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond.
    I felt Leslie’s hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward to hear more distinctly—His step made a noise on the gravel walk—a bright beautiful face glanced out at the window and vanished—a light foot-step was heard, and Mary came tripping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty, rural dress of white; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole countenance beamed with smiles—I had never seen her look so lovely.
    â€œMy dear George,” cried