She laid still and pale upon the bed, while Dawn moved, or rather floated, about the room. The tide of life was fast ebbing; the last grief had sundered the long tension, and soon her freed spirit would be winging its way heavenward.
“Shall I sit by you and read?” asked Dawn, as the hand on the clock pointed to the hour of midnight. No sleep had come to the weary eyes, which now turned so thankfully and trustingly to the benefactor of the outcast.
In tones sweetly modulated to the time and state, she commenced reading that comforting psalm, “The Lord is my shepherd.”
At its close, Margaret was asleep, and Dawn laid back in her chair, rested, and watched till morning.
“Where am I? What has happened?” were the questions expressed on the features of the poor girl, when she awoke, and her spirit wandered back from dreamland.
It was some time before she could take up the thread of joy which was now woven into her last earthly days, and forget the dark, sorrowful past. The old years seemed to her then like musty volumes, bound by a golden chord. The present peace compensated her for the long season of unrest, and in its atmosphere her soul gathered its worn, scattered forces, and prepared itself to leave the old and to take on the new form.
How few homes are such gates to heaven. And yet they who expect angels to abide with them, must not forget to entertain the lowly and the erring. Many have houses decked and garnished, but how rarely do we find on life's journey, these wayside inns for the weary pilgrims who have wandered away into forbidden paths.
Not alone did Dawn administer to her; her father and mother soothed the dying girl's pillow, and infused into the otherwise dark and troubled soul, rays of eternal light.
Ye who would have beautiful garlands beyond, must care for the neglected blossoms here, and wash the dust of life's great highway from their drooping petals. Ye who would seek life, must lose it; the flowing stream alone is pure and vital. Lives are selfish that are stagnant, and generate disease and death.
How poor, because destitute of enduring wealth, are those who, rich in worldly goods, neglect their opportunities, and hence know not the blessedness of doing good. There is no provision in all God's universe for such pauperism. Slowly must they, who by their own acts, become its subjects, work themselves from it into the sphere of true life. Another world will more plainly reveal this, and it will be found that they who value not such opportunities here, will beg for them there. In that existence will be many, who, forgetful or neglectful of their duty while on earth, must remain in spirit about this world, and through other organisms than their own, do that which they should have done, and could have accomplished far easier, when occupants of their earthly temples. There is no escape from the law of life, for God is that law, and that law is God. Happy they who become willing instruments in his hand.
In selfhood, nothing can be done, for life is always in conjunction. All potent forces are combinations, and egotism ever limits that power which is daily and hourly seeking lodgment in the midst of mankind. He who trusts only to himself, destroys his own usefulness, and blindly turns away from every source of highest enjoyment.
The sun passed slowly over the western hills, tinging with a beautiful mellowness the clouds along the horizon. It was a pleasant hour to die, when the earth was still, and weary feet were turning from labor to rest.
“Shall we know each other there?” asked the dying girl of Dawn.
“It is there as here. We are ever known and loved, for God's provision for his children extends beyond the vale.”
“And are the sinful, the erring, received into peace and rest?”
“None are without sin; none spotless; peace and rest are for the weary.”
“O, comforting words. They must be from God,” softly whispered Margaret; she closed her pale blue eyes as though she would shut out everything but that one consoling thought.
When she opened them, they shone with a heavenly radiance, and she reached forth her thin, white hand towards Dawn, who clasped it in her own. A few short breaths, a single pressure,—it was Margaret's last token as she went over the river to find that life and rest which on earth had been denied to her.
Dawn laid the cold, white hands on the breast of the sleeper, and went out of the chamber where a soul had had its new birth, with deepened emotions of life, and its claims upon humanity.
The next instant she was clasped to the warm heart of her father, and nestled closely there until the weary lids closed, and sleep descended upon her.
He held her through her slumber, and prayed for strength to bear the separations which must come between himself and child; for most clearly did he perceive that God had mapped out for her a labor that would call her from his side.
“May I never shadow the rays of the Infinite,” he said, just as she awoke.
“How clear it is; some cloud seems to have been removed from me,” spoke Dawn, looking up into his eyes, not perfectly comprehending all. “I may work in my own way, now you have some one to love beside me; may I not?”
“Not for worlds, my child, would I hinder you in your mission of usefulness, and if in the past, I have been selfish, I am not now. Go and come at your pleasure; bring whom you will to your home, and my blessings shall rest on them and you.”
Dawn had no words with which to express her gratitude. The tears, that in spite of her efforts to keep them back, would glisten in her eyes, indicated the depth of her feelings, and the love she cherished for her father. From that moment their lives flowed like a river, in a deeper and broader channel, and many bright flowers blossomed on its margin giving hope to the despairing, rest and strength to the weary and fainting pilgrims of time.
They made a grave under a willow, and engraved on a plain, white stone, the simple word: MARGARET.
Parents and child had met in the world beyond, to grow into daily recognition of, and unfold in a more genial clime, their individual lives.
Mrs. Thorne (Margaret's step-mother) had died a year previous to the time when Dawn found the old man in the city, looking for his daughter.
After Margaret's departure from home, he became dull and listless, and finally deranged. What subtle attraction led him to the city where Margaret was stopping, few can comprehend; but to those who fully realize that guardian angels watch over and guide us, the mystery is solved, and it, like many other seemingly strange things of life, made clear in the light of that faith.
It was for woman that Dawn labored, for through her elevation she saw that the whole race must ascend. All should know that men will be great if women are; and it is a truth that is daily becoming more evident, that he must be reached through her. In a Hindoo fable, Vishna is represented as following Maga through a series of transformations. When she is an insect, he becomes an insect; she changes to an elephant, and he becomes one of the same species; till at last she becomes a woman, and he a man; she a goddess, and he a god. So, outside the regions of fable, if woman is ignorant and frivolous, man will be ignorant and frivolous; if woman rises she will take man up with her.
Two years passed away, and the current of life grew stronger, as each wave inflowed to the shore where Dawn sat, waiting for shattered barks. This was her life-mission, and well she knew, to help the lowly and down-trodden in every station of life, was but fulfilling the divine command.
They were not all outcasts who laid claim to her love and sympathy; for, sanctioned by the marriage law, the soul's chastity was daily being sacrificed to lust, shame, and dishonor. She saw many living together in wedlock, under the most debasing influences, void of every grace and feeling which makes life holy and refined; bringing into the world children, gross, dull, and inharmonious, like themselves.
The question will force itself upon every thoughtful mind, Why is all this?
Even to destroy life, heinous as that sin is, cannot be deemed more sinful than to bring it into being, under such circumstances, to suffer.
But we are passing through the refining process. Much will be questioned, much remain unanswered. Let us look well to ourselves, and learn that there are many ways in which we may err, before we condemn others.
The light of to-day is insufficient for to-morrow; let us, therefore, be not too assertive, and bold, but follow quietly the indications of life, not closing down our opinion upon any of its agitations. To-day is ours, no more; sufficient unto the day is the evil. We burden ourselves each hour with too many questions which retard our progress.
A wise man takes no more weight than his horses can draw. Our journey would be swifter, if we started with less each morning. We can not hasten God's purposes. Growth is slow; feverish action is disease. The throbbing pulse is beating away our vital forces, not adding to life, and yet how many do we behold, who, working in this unhealthy manner, look on those more calm and collected, as lacking force.
The cataract expends itself in spray and foam; the deep river, more slow, bears its tribute of wealth to the ocean.
Let us work calmly, and not mistake mists for mountains. Depth is height.
Enthusiasm is the sun which warms, not burns, our lives. It is a richness, a fullness of being, not a wild, spasmodic action.
With Dawn's efforts came increased light, until it seemed to her, that all the motives of human souls were laid open before her vision. This power of perception made her life compact, sharp, and real; and there were moments when she longed for a veil to be let down between her and the persons with whom she came in contact.
She walked among the crowd, but did not mingle with it. She soared above, and they who could not comprehend her, called her strange and odd. Such chasms must ever exist, where one sees the heart's interior, and knows that its true beatings are muffled and suppressed. With such clear vision, the mind at times almost loses its mental poise, its equilibrium, and forgets the glorious hopes and promises which are recorded in the book of life, as compensatory for all its conflicts here.
After many months of a life of intensity, it was with a sense of relief that Dawn, upon opening a letter from Miss Weston, received information of her intention of making her a short visit. This would so change the tenor of her life, that she was overjoyed at the thought of the happiness in store for her. But when, at the close of a bright summer day, she met her friend at the door, and recognized the life of Ralph so closely blended with her spirit, she involuntarily shrank from her approach, and almost regretted that she had come. She, however, quickly rallied all her forces, fearful lest the shadow might be mistaken for that of uncordiality, and drawing her tenderly to her side, imprinted her warmest kisses upon her lips.
Tears sprang to Edith's eyes, and coursed down her cheeks; tears which Dawn could not comprehend, for her vision, both mental and spiritual, was clouded, her thoughts wandered, and her words seemed vague and indirect.
Seated in the library after tea, she asked her friend to sing for her.
Miss Weston readily complied, and sang with beautiful pathos and feeling, Schubert's Wanderer.
“Why that song?” said Dawn, as Edith rose from the instrument.
“I seemed to sing it for you, for I, surely, am no wanderer now.”
The color rose to Dawn's face, as she said quickly, “I hope not. Then you, at last, have found rest?”
“Perfect peace and rest. I think I never found my home before; for I am so happy with Ralph and Marion.”
Was Dawn jealous? What did that blushing face mean, followed by a whiteness rivalling that of the snow? Was it caused by fear, or hope?
Miss Weston seemed not to notice her agitation, but continued praising Ralph and his sister, till her listener proposed a walk in the garden before retiring.
They strolled among the flowers and shrubbery, and then sat upon the same seat which her father and mother had so often occupied.
Her tears could flow now and not be seen, so she repressed them no longer, but allowed them to fall freely over her blanched cheek.
“Dawn,” said Edith, suddenly, “I have a fairy tale which I wish to read to you to-night, before we go to our slumbers.”
Dawn, glad of any diversion, gladly assented, and they went into her room, where they sat together, while Edith read the following tale:—
“In the days of chivalry, when life to the wealthy was a series of exciting enjoyments, and to the poor a hopeless slavery, a Fairy and a beautiful child lived in an old castle together. The owner of this large and neglected building had been absent on the crusade ever since the time which gave him a daughter and deprived him of a wife; but many an aged pilgrim brought occasional tidings of the glory he was winning in the distant land. At last it was said he was wending his way homeward, and bringing with him a young orphan companion, who had risen, by dint of his own brave deeds alone, from the rank of a simple knight to be the chosen leader of thousands. The child had grown to girlhood now, and very bright upon her sleep were the dreams of this youthful hero, who was to love her and be the all of her solitary life. I said she dwelt with the Fairy; true, but of her presence she had never dreamed. Always invisible, the being had yet never left her. She whispered prayer in her ear, as she knelt morning and evening in the dim little oratory; she brought calm and happy feelings to her breast, which the commonest things awoke to joy and life; she led her to seek and feel for the needy, the sick, and the suffering; she nurtured in her the holiest faith in God, and trust in man; yet the maiden thought she breathed all this from the summer evenings, the flowers, the swift labor of her light fingers, and the thousand things which cherished the happiness growing up within her heart.
“It was night, and Ada slept; the moon's rays, gilding each turret and tower, crept in at the narrow portal which gave light to the chamber, and lingered on the sunny hair and rounded limbs of the sleeping girl.
“The Fairy sat by her side, weeping for the first time.
“'Alas!' said she, 'the stranger is coming; thou wilt love him, my child; and they say that earthly love is misery. Among us, we know no unrest from it; we love, indeed, each other and all things lovely, but ages pass on, and love changes us not. Yet they say it fevers the blood of mortals, pales the cheek, makes the heart beat, and the voice falter, when it comes; yet it is eternal, mighty, and entrancing. Alas! I cannot understand it! Ada, I must leave thee to other guidance than my own. I love thee more than self, still I can be no longer thy guide.'
“The Fairy started, for she felt, though she heard not, that other spirits had suddenly become present. She raised her eyes, and three forms, more radiant than any fairy can be, were gazing on her in silent sadness.
“'O, spirits,' cried the weeper, faintly, 'who can ye be?'
“'The shades of love,' replied voices so etherially fine that a spirit's ear could hardly discern the words.
“'The shades,” repeated the Fairy in surprise; 'I thought love was one.'
“'I am Love,' said the three together; 'intrust the untainted heart of your beloved one to me.'
“'O, pure beings,' cried the Fairy, bending reverently before them, 'will ye indeed guide Ada to happiness, yet ask my permission? Tell me, though not human, to choose which a human heart would prefer.'
“'My name is Mind,' replied the first. 'When I dwell on earth, I bind together two etherial essences; I unite the most spiritual part of each; I assimilate thought; I cause the communion of ideas. No love can be eternal without me, and with me associate the loftiest enjoyments. Words cannot tell the rapture of love between mind and mind. Dreams cannot picture the glory of that union. Very rarely do I dwell unstained and alone in a human breast, but when I do, that being becomes lost in the entireness of its bliss. Fairy, the lover of Ada is a hero; wilt thou accept me to reign in her heart?'
“The Fairy paused, and then spoke sadly,—
“'Alas, bright being, Ada is a girl of passionate and earnest feeling. Thou couldst not be happiness to her. Thou mightest, indeed, abstract her intellect in time from all things but itself; but the heart within her must first wither or die, and the death of a young heart is a terrible thing. Pardon me, but Ada cannot be thine.'
“'They call me Virtue,' said the second spirit; 'when I fill a heart, that heart can live alone. It wakes to life on seeing my shadow in the object it first loves; that object never realizes the form of which it bears the semblance, and then turns to me, the ideal, for its sole happiness. I am associated with every thing pure and holy and true. Where human spirits have drawn nighest to the Eternal, I have been there to hallow them; where the weak have suffered long without complaint, where the dying have to the last, last breath held one name dearer than all; where innocence hath stayed guilt, and darkest injuries been forgiven, there ever am I. Fairy, shall I dwell with Ada?'
“Still sadder were the accents of the guardian Fairy:
“'And is this human love?' said she. 'This would be no happiness to my child, who is a mortal and a woman, and who will yearn for a closer and a dearer thing than the love of goodness alone; erring creatures cannot love perfection as their daily food. Beautiful spirit, thou art fitted for heaven, not earth, for an angel, but not for Ada.'
“Then spoke the third:
“'My name is Beauty,' said she. 'Men unite me to imagination and worship me. Many have degraded me to the meanest things I own, because my very essence is passion; but they who know my true nature, unite me with everything divine and lovely in the world. If I fill Ada's heart when she loves, the very face of all things will change to her. The flowing of a brook will be music, the singing of the summer birds ecstacy; the early morning, the dewy evening, will fill her with strange tenderness, for a light will be on all things-the light of her love; and she will learn what it is to stay her very heart's beatings to catch the lightest step of the adored; to feel the hot blood rushing to her brow, when only he looks on her, the hand tremble, and the whole frame thrill with exquisite rapture, and meet with delicious tremor, the first look of love from a man. The raptures of my first bliss were worth ages of misery; and, pressed to the bosom of the beloved, a human spirit feels it is indeed blessed. Youth is mine, eternal youth and pleasure. Fairy, Ada must be mine.'
“'Thou seemest,' said the Fairy, musingly, 'to be the most suited for mortals. In thy words and emblems I see nothing but sensuality of the least material order. And to all there seemeth, too, to be a time when one clasp of the hand that is loved is more than the comprehension of the grandest thought. Beauty, I will give up my child to thee; and O, if thou canst not keep her happy, keep her pure till I return. Guard her as thou wouldst the bloom of the rose leaf, which may not bear even a breath.'
“The Fairy's voice faltered as she turned away, and imprinted a kiss on the sleeper's cheek. Ada moved uneasily, but did not awake; and in the last glance that she gave to her charge was united the form of the spirit of Beauty, folding, in motionless silence, her radiant wings over the low couch. The other shades had fled some brief time since, and, burying her face in her slight mantle, the beautiful Fairy faded slowly away in the moonlight.
“A brief time passed, and the baron had returned with his hero guest to the castle, and the beneficent being who had guarded Ada's childhood, had been up and down the earth, cheering the sad, soothing the weary, and inspiring the fallen.
“Much had she seen of human suffering, yet many a great lesson had it taught her of the high destiny of mortals, and she winged her flight back to Ada's couch, sanguine of her happiness. The spirit of Beauty still floated above it, but the Fairy thought that the bright form had strangely lost its first etheriality.
“Fevered and restless, the sleeper tossed from side to side. With trembling fear she drew near the low bed, and gazed fondly on the unconscious form. Alas! there was no peace on that face now. There was that which some deem lovelier than even beauty-passion; but to the pure Fairy the expression was terrible.
“'My child, my child,' cried she in agony, 'is this thy love? Better had thine heart been crushed within thee, than that thou shouldst have given thyself up to it alone. Thou hast an eternal soul, and thou hast loved without it; thou art feeding flames which will consume the feelings they have kindled. Spirit, is this thy work?'
“'Such is the love of mortals,' answered the shade. 'It is ever thus; the sensual objects are but emblems of the spirit union of another world; yet this is never seen at first, and every impetuous soul, rushing on the threshold of life, worships the symbol for the reality,—the image for the god. Fear not, Fairy, the flame dies, but the essence is not quenched; from the ashes of Passion springs the Phoenix of Love. Ada will recover from this burning dream.'
“'Never!' cried the Fairy, 'if she yields her heart up to thoughts like these. Thou art a fiend, Beauty,—a betrayer. Avaunt, thou most accursed, thou hast ruined my child.'
“And as she spoke, weeping bitterly, she averted her face from the shade. All was still once more, and her grief slowly calming, the Fairy hoped she was now alone, until, raising her eyes, she saw the being, more radiant and glorious than ever, still guarding the sleeping girl.
“'Fairy,' said the shade, sadly, 'this is no fault of mine. I have ever come to the human heart with thoughts pure as the bosom of the lily, and beautiful as paradise, but the nature of man degrades and enslaves me. Thou sawest how my wings were soiled, and their light dimmed by the sin of even yon guileless girl, and, alas! thousands have lived to curse me and call me demon before thee. Now, at thy bidding, I will leave Ada, and forever. She will awake, but never again to that fine sympathy with nature, that exquisite perception of all high and holy things, I have first made her know. She will awake still good, still true; but the visions of youth quenched suddenly, as these will have been, leave a fearful darkness for the future life.'
“'Alas! alas!' cried the Fairy, wringing her hands, with a burst of sudden grief, 'whether thou goest or remainest now, Ada must be wretched.'
“'Not so,' returned the shade, in a voice whose sweetness, from its melancholy, was like the wailing of plaintive music; 'not so, if thou wilt otherwise. Thou hast erred; from the shades of Love thou didst select me, and, panting as we each do for sole possession of the heart we occupy, it is impossible either separately can bring happiness to it. Each has striven for ages, but in vain. It is the union of the three, the perfect union, that alone makes Love complete.'
“'But will Mind and Virtue return?' asked the Fairy, doubtingly; 'I bid them myself depart.'
“'They will ever return,' said Beauty, joyfully, 'even to the heart most under sway, if desired in truth. A wish, sometimes-fervent and truthful it must be, but still a wish-alone often brings them.'
“At that moment a hurried prayer sprang to the Fairy's lips, but ere it could frame itself into words, light filled the little chamber, and the three shades of Love stood there once more, beautiful and shining.
“'Mighty beings,' said the spirit, 'forgive me. Attend Ada united and forever, and I shall then have fulfilled my destiny.'
“'We promise,' returned the shades; and gazing for a few moments in earnest fondness on the dreamer's happy face, the Fairy bade a last farewell to her well-loved charge.”
“Where did you find this strange tale?” inquired Dawn, as soon as her friend had finished.
“In Ralph's folio of drawings, which he loaned me a few days ago.”
“Have you the folio here?”
“No, I left it at home; but took some of his last sketches to copy, or rather study.”
“I did not know you could sketch.”
“I do not; but Ralph is teaching me.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Very much, with him for instructor. I should not like any one else to teach me.”
“How do you know that, as you have never tried any other?”
“We know some things intuitively; as I know that you love this man, though no words of yours have ever lisped that love to a living being.”
“Edith!”
“Dawn, it's true; and may I not know the reason why you so steel your heart against him?”
“I steel my heart against him? Who told you that?”
“Some Fairy, perchance; but seriously, my dear friend, answer me, and forgive me if I seem curious and intrusive. Do you know aught against him? Is he not high, and good, and noble?”
“For aught I know he has all those qualities of heart and soul which would draw any woman's heart towards him.”
“Then you cannot love him, save as a brother, or you would respond to his longing to take you to himself, and help you in your labors.”
“Edith, how do you know this? Has he thus laid his feelings before another? I could not ever reverence one who could do this.”
“He has not. I know it all by living in his home. I feel his sorrows and know their nature, as well as his joys. You seem strange, Dawn; I do not understand you.”
“Neither do I understand myself. My life is strange; although I love this man as I never loved before, I do not see that I can wed him. Perhaps we shall be one above, but no one must come between me and my labor,—not even the dearest idol.”
“Perhaps his love might make you stronger; help you to extend your usefulness by increasing your happiness.”
“Carlyle says, 'There is in man a higher than love of happiness; he can do without happiness, and instead thereof, find blessednss.'”
“Very true; and yet happiness might also be blessedness.”
“And yet you have read to me, in the fairy tale, that 'earthly love is misery,' that it 'fevers the blood of mortals, pales the cheek, makes the heart beat, and the voice falter, when it comes.' I cannot be thus consumed. I have another mission. Edith, who do you suppose wrote that tale?”
“I know not; it bore no name. Which of the three shades would you prefer to guide you, Dawn?”
“Virtue.”
“I knew your answer before you spoke it. May the spirit you have chosen remain with you forever, and may your career be as bright as your name.”
They parted; one to rest, the other to struggle long and earnestly with passion and feeling, ere the tide of peace flowed in.
It was morning when her soul cast off the contest, and as the shadows of night were swept away, so her mental shadows were lost in the soul's bright effulgence; for her emotions had been made subordinate, not destroyed, as they should ever be, to the spiritual. They were only submerged, not annihilated, ready to flow again when the hour should demand them.
The natural emotions of the heart are right, when kept subservient to reason. They are the soul's richest reserved forces, and should not be daily consumed.
A more intimate relation sprang up between Edith and Dawn, and when they met that morning, it seemed as though they had just emerged from a long experience. So closely and unexpectedly do we sometimes come to one another.
Herbert and Florence, to Dawn's great joy, were travelling in Europe, and their children were now a part of her father's household. The day's pleasure was planned with a view to their happiness, and spent mostly in the woods gathering mosses, wild flowers, and ferns.
Hugh and his new wife were daily extending their usefulness, and growing in stronger individuality and deeper harmony. It was always a great pleasure to have Dawn with them in their most earnest conversations. She seemed to vivify and to cause their thoughts to flow with a power they knew not, separately or together, without her presence. Thus do some natures impart a sense of freedom to our mental action, while others chill our being with a feeling of restraint, and limit all our aspirations. In the presence of these latter we seem and act directly the opposite of ourselves, or rather below our intellectual and affectional plane, and the warm heart and generous nature appears cold and distrustful.
Young Herbert, Florence's eldest, was a great talker, and as they wandered through the woods, naught scarce could be heard, but his voice in exclamation, questioning, or surprise, as each turn and winding revealed some beauty new to his admiring eyes.
“I think I shall have to relate to you the fable of Echo and Narcissus,” said Dawn, as he was contending for the last word with his sister.
“What is that? tell me right away, won't you?” he said impatiently, seizing her hand and looking eagerly into her face.
“Not just now, but after we have gathered more mosses, and had our luncheon, I will tell you all about the beautiful nymph.”
“Nymph, nymph! what was that? Was it alive? Could it see us?” These and other questions followed, till Dawn found it quite hard to longer put him off.
“If you are patient and good to your sister, I will tell you all about the nymph. Now go and take good care of her, while I go on farther, where Miss Weston is sketching those rocks.”
“I will be good, but don't forget the story, Auntie, when you come back. Are there any nymphs here?”
“Perhaps there may be. I think there is one who resembles them very much,” and she kissed his young, happy face, turned so eagerly up to her own. Leaving him to amuse himself as best he might, Dawn approached Edith and seated herself beside a bed of deep green moss, and watched, with intense interest, the growing picture for a long time; then her mind became abstracted and cloudy. She was no longer in the green woods, amid the fern and wild flowers, but away, far away on life's great highway, where the dust, rising at every step, blinded her eyes.
Thus semi-entranced, Dawn sat unconscious of the presence of her friend, and everything earthly around her, until the spell was broken, and her attention was attracted by a sheet of note paper, which fluttered at her feet. Almost involuntarily she picked it up, and her gaze was fastened upon the writing with which it was covered.
“'Tis love which mostly destinates our life. What makes the world in after life I know not, For our horizon alters as we age; Power only can make up for the lack of love— Power of some sort. The mind at one time grows So fast, it fails; and then its stretch is more Than its strength; but, as it opes, love fills it up, Like to the stamen in the flower of life, Till for the time we well-nigh grow all love; And soon we feel the want of one kind heart To love what's well, and to forgive what's ill In us—”
Then followed these lines, written with a trembling hand, some of the words being almost illegible:
“I cannot love as I have loved,
And yet I know not why;
It is the one great woe of life,
To feel all feeling die;
And one by one the heart-strings snap,
As age comes on so chill;
And hope seems left, that hope may cease,
And all will soon be still.
And the strong passions, like to storms,
Soon rage themselves to rest,
Or leave a desolated calm—
A worn and wasted breast;
A heart that like the Geyser spring,
Amidst its bosomed snows,
May shrink, not rest, but with its blood
Boils even in repose.
And yet the things one might have loved
Remain as they have been,—
Youth ever lovely, and one heart
Still sacred and serene;
But lower, less, and grosser things
Eclipse the world-like mind,
And leave their cold, dark shadow where
Most to the light inclined.
And then it ends as it began,
The orbit of our race,
In pains and tears, and fears of life,
And the new dwelling place.
From life to death,—from death to life,
We hurry round to God,
And leave behind us nothing but
The path that we have trod.”
She knew whose hand had copied these words, and how keenly the heart that sensed their meaning was suffering, and yet she could not place her hand upon its beatings and quell its throbs.
“Why! how came this from Ralph's folio? The wind must have taken it out,” said Miss Weston, noticing the paper, while holding the picture for her friend to look at. Dawn did not reply to her inquiry, but gave her words of praise and encouragement, while her thoughts were afar from forest, friends and picture.
“Come, Auntie, it's time for the luncheon, your father says, and we have it almost ready.”
She arose, and with Miss Weston joined the party, thinking how strange it was that those lines should come to her; for something seemed to tell her that they had been accidentally placed in the folio, as they were evidently not intended for any eye but that of the writer.
The luncheon was partaken of with more avidity by the others than by Dawn, whose mind was constantly reverting to the words which she had read.
“Now for the story, Auntie,” said Herbert, seating himself on the grass, beside her.
“Do you remember the name of the nymph I am going to tell you about?”
“Yes, it was-it was Echo.”
“Very good. I am glad you remembered it. Well, Echo was a beautiful wood-nymph, fond of the woods and hills, where she devoted herself to woodland sports. She was a favorite of Diana, and attended her in the chase. But Echo had one failing; she was fond of talking, and would always have the last word. One day Juno was seeking her husband, who, she had reason to fear, was amusing himself among the nymphs. Echo by her talk contrived to detain the goddess till the nymphs made their escape. When Juno discovered it, she passed sentence upon Echo in these words: You shall forfeit the use of the tongue with which you have cheated me, except for that one purpose you are so fond of—reply. You shall have the last word, but no power to speak first.
“This nymph saw Narcissus, a beautiful youth, as he pursued the chase upon the mountains. She loved him, and followed his footsteps. O, how she longed to address him in the softest accents, and win him to converse; but it was not in her power. She waited with impatience for him to speak first, and had her answer ready. One day the youth, being separated from his companions, shouted aloud, 'Who's here?' Echo replied 'here.' Narcissus looked around, but seeing no one, called out, 'Come.' Echo answered, 'come.' As no one came, Narcissus called again, 'Why do you shun me?' Echo asked the same question. 'Let us join one another,' said the youth. The maid answered with all her heart in the same words and hastened to the spot, ready to throw her arms about his neck. He started back, exclaiming, 'Hands off; I would rather die than you should have me.' 'Have me,' said she; but it was all in vain. He left her and she went to hide her blushes in the recesses of the woods. From that time forth she lived in caves and among mountain cliffs. Her form faded with grief, till at last all her flesh shrank away. Her bones were changed into rocks, and there was nothing left of her but her voice. With that she is still ready to reply to any one who calls her, and keeps up her old habit of having the last word.”
“Speak to her now, and see if she will answer you?” said Dawn to her attentive listener.
“Why, is she here? in these woods?”
“Call her, and see.”
“Echo-Echo!” The words came back to the wondering child, his face aglow with curiosity and fear.
“Now I will tell you the moral of this little story, which is: be not anxious for the last word, as I see my good little Herbert is, too often, especially when talking with his sister.”
“Will I change into rocks and shrink all up if I do?”
“That is not the thing to be feared. But you would not; your mind would grow narrow and selfish, which is a fate most to be deplored, for you wish to be a good and great man, do you not?”
“Yes, I want to be good as papa, and uncle Wyman, as he always calls him.”
“Then remember and be unselfish, and think first of others' welfare, will you?”
“I will try; and can I always talk with Echo?”
“Whenever you are near the wood where she lives.”
“Will she live here when I am a grown-up man?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because, if I don't like folks' answers, I can come and talk to Echo.”
“She will certainly be very likely to be of your opinion, or, at least, she will express herself to your liking; but I hope my little Herbert will find those more agreeable than Echo to talk with.”
“I don't want to, Auntie; I like her.”
Dawn smiled, and thought how older heads did not like disputation, preferring often the companionship of a mere echo, to good sense and sound judgment, forgetting that “he who wrestles with us, strengthens us.”
The party returned home laden with flowers, with just weariness enough to enjoy their rest. The children were put to bed, after a good supper, and the family enjoyed themselves with music and conversation, each feeling differently related to each other, as we ever do, when some fresh life is infused into the every-day scenes of life.
The barren soul seems like a kaleidoscope, changing its relations at each experience, whether of joy or sorrow. How beautiful is life, when we learn bear to our friends.
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