The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant
and wandering eye- "Oh, my dear, dear mother! don't you know your son?
your poor boy, George?" It was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad,
who, shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign imprisonment, had,
at length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the
scenes of his childhood.
I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting,
where joy and sorrow were so completely blended: still he was alive!
he was come home! he might yet live to comfort and cherish her old
age! Nature, however, was exhausted in him; and if any thing had
been wanting to finish the work of fate, the desolation of his
native cottage would have been sufficient. He stretched himself on the
pallet on which his widowed mother had passed many a sleepless
night, and he never rose from it again.
The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had returned,
crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance that their
humble means afforded. He was too weak, however, to talk- he could
only look his thanks. His mother was his constant attendant; and he
seemed unwilling to be helped by any other hand.
There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of
manhood; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings of
infancy.
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