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 how much we can be to each other, and how varied may be the
relations we bear to our friends.