From the fair southern clime where her lines had hitherto been cast,
little Golden traveled straight to the great, thronged city of New York.
During her long day and night of intense suffering, the thought, first
suggested to her mind by old Dinah, of seeking and reclaiming her
erring mother, had fastened on her mind with irresistible force and
power.
Every thought and feeling of this beautiful, unhappy child was as pure
as that of an angel.
The knowledge that the young mother who had given her birth was living
a life of sin and dishonor was most revolting to her mind. She could
not think of it without a mortal shudder.
When Dinah fell asleep by her pillow the girl awakened suddenly and lay
for a little while in silent meditation. The idea she had been silently
revolving in her mind all day gathered strength in the solitude and
stillness of the midnight hour.
Golden was young, buoyant, ignorant of the world, and thought not
of the difficulties that would hedge the path of duty which she was
marking out for her little, untried feet.
She did not know how dear she was to her grandfather's heart, and how
bitterly he would be wounded by her desertion. She only thought of
escaping from the life which had suddenly become so unbearable, and of
filling her heart with other aims now that the love she had given so
lavishly from the depths of a warm and generous heart, had been cast
back to her in scorn and contempt.
In the pocket of her best cashmere dress was a little purse filled with
gold pieces of which no one knew but herself.
Bertram Chesleigh had given it to her in a happy, never-to-be-forgotten
hour which now it almost killed her even to recall.
Almost staggering with weakness, Golden rose and silently and
cautiously dressed herself in her blue cashmere dress and hat and
jacket.
She decided not to take anything with her. It would be easier to
purchase new things when she had arrived in New York.
When she was ready to go, Golden knelt down a moment and pressed her
fair cheek lovingly and sorrowfully to the toil-worn wrinkled hand of
her old black mammy.
She loved the old negress dearly. Under that homely black breast beat
the only heart that had ever given a mother's love to the beautiful,
forsaken child of poor, wronged and misguided little Golden.
Then with a lingering, loving, backward glance around, the girl left
the room and proceeded to her grandfather's apartment.
The kind old man was asleep with a look of care and anxiety deeply
imprinted on his pale, worn features.
Golden pressed her trembling lips to the thin, gray locks that
straggled over the pillow, and her girlish tears fell on them, shining
like jewels in the dim gleam of the night-lamp.
Then Golden stole away noiselessly. There was one more farewell to
be said ere she set forth on the mission whose only clew lay in the
crumpled card hidden away securely in the little purse of gold.
She knelt down on the banks of the tranquil little lake she had always
loved so dearly, and clasped her little hands and lifted her white face
in the bright moonlight.
"Farewell, little lake," she murmured to the silvery, tranquil sheet
of water. "I pray God that the time may come when I shall kneel by
you again, and tell you that I have reclaimed my erring mother, and
that her soul has been washed as pure and free from sin as the lilies
sleeping on your breast."
Was it only little Golden's excited fancy, or did a shadow, soft and
impalpable as a mist wreath, and pale as the moonbeams, glide across
the still water in the form of a woman, and a voice as soft and low as
the sigh of the breeze murmur sadly:
"Bless you, my daughter."
She started and looked around; the voice and vision had been so real
she could hardly imagine it fancy, but the phantom shape had dissolved
into moonbeams again, and the voice had melted into music on the
"homeless winds."
"If my poor mother was dead I should believe that her spirit had
blessed me," said the beautiful girl to herself. "But she is alive, so
it could not have been she, perhaps it was my guardian angel."
She plucked a beautiful, large, white lily from the lake and started
on her way to the railway station, carrying the spotless flower in her
hand.
Perhaps some thought of the poet, Longfellow's, verses came to her mind:
"Bear a lily in thine hand,
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand,
Bear through sorrow, wrong and ruth,
On thy lips the smile of truth,
In thy heart the dew of youth."