"Indeed!" rejoined Ida, putting the] last flower into water, and averting her face from me. "I can not think what that can be." "Your heart." I saw her hand tremble, but she was silent, and I continued: "You know how very deeply I loved you long ago when we were quite children; well, that love has grown up and strengthened in me; it is a passion now, Ida, a strong, manly passion. Tell me from your heart if you could ever love me? Bid me hope, and I shall go to college happy and fight my way in the world with the joyful assurance that one day, when I have earned the right, I may look forward to the inexpressible blessing of your love. Do not turn away, Ida; you make me tremble for fear that I have been mistaken." At first she made a movement as if to run from me, then checking herself, she turned suddenly round and gazed at me timidly, as she said: "I do love you, Hans; but I am so very young, I am only just sixteen." "We are both young, but as we were not too young to love each other at six years old, we can not be too young now. I could not leave Weimar without the assurance of your attachment." "I am afraid you will forget me, Hans," said she, sorrowfully. "You have seen but little of the world, you will meet those who will please you far more than I, and then you will regret having said all this to me." I took both her hands in mine, and looked full into her face. "Can you not trust me?" "Oh! yes, if I thought you knew the full meaning of what you say.". "You believe in my love; what doubt, then, can possibly remain ?" "A great one, Hans; we can not marry for many years to come. Is it right to enter into such a long engagement? Will our parents permit us to do so?" Ida was far more thoughtful and experienced than I; I could think of nothing but love, and it galled me to have truths set before me-truths which I could not set aside except by vehemence, not argument. "Your father would not hear of your taking so imprudent a step," said she, with provoking composure. "Ida, you will drive me wild; you can not love me if you persist in putting forth doubts where none exist." "It is because I love you that I raise these doubts." "Why should we ask his consent or any one's? It will be time enough when we can marry." "And must we live in deceit for so many years? O Hans! that would be dreadful !” "Why? I do not understand your scruples." "I feel sure they are just, because it pains me to make them." "And is the right always painful?" asked I mockingly, for I was vexed with her. "Do not be angry, Hans," she said, looking up at me with her bewitching eyes. "Let us ask our parents now; if they refuse to permit our engagement, we can still love each other." "And be parted, or else use deceit? No, Ida, you are in the wrong now; better never speak of our engagement than go contrary to their wishes after asking their consent." "But perhaps I was wrong when I thought there would be any objection made," mused Ida, irresolutely, and turning from me. I caught at that doubt, and said reproachfully: "It is you who shrink from a long engagement; you do not love me sufficiently to bear the tedium of it." I had gone too far; she burst into tears, and said she had not deserved this of me. My conscience was pricked, I tried to soothe her, said I would do any thing she wished if only she would smile. "I do not wish to lead you, Hans; I wish you to follow your own judgment; only think before you decide." I have thought, and it is the result of that which brings me here to-day. I could not leave home without telling you all, for I wanted strength to enable me to leave you. You have given me this, by the assurance of your love; our engagement is now inevitable. You surely will not torture both yourself and me by refusing to become my promised wife?" "No," said Ida; "I do but wish our parents told." "My father will refuse his consent now; we must wait, and when I return from college with my doctor's diploma, we will ask for it, and all will go well." Ida smiled when I mentioned the diplo ma, but the smile had faded in a moment from her lips, and she said gravely: "You ask me to hear of your success in life without a proud smile. You ask me to appear outwardly to regard you with no more interest than if I had no right to share in your joy, whilst inwardly I feel the greatest right of all-that of being your promised wife." You "What do you mean, Ida? puzzle me," I said; but she continued without appearing to have heard me: "Yes, and when I hear of your being in sorrow, I must weep alone, and feel that I have no right to make known my grief when I did not suffer any one to share my joy. Wherever I go, the secret of my heart will make me lonely. I may want consolation, support, and sympathy, but I shall have no one to fly to-no one, and yet so many." 66 Why not fly to me?" "How? You will be away; we shall meet very seldom." "And can not you bear all this for my sake?" I asked mournfully. "I ought not to ask you to do it, but still I did hope" "Hope every thing," said Ida, hurriedly. "I would bear it all, and a thousand times more, if it be really necessary." "It is," I said slowly, and I felt I spoke the truth, though it cost me a pang as the thought of my selfishness came before me, more especially when I held my little promised bride in my arms, and she whispered: "I am yours, Hans." Was I destined always to lead her astray? No, no, the great fault of our lives was committed then, and it was I who led her wrong, and many a bitter, lonely hour she must have spent, whilst I, buoyed up with hope, stormed out into the world of manhood, and, save for a few brief moments of self-reproach, our engagement was joy to me, and never cost me an instant's perplexity or pain, till the unforeseen consequences of my hasty step burst upon me, bringing distress and sorrow on the head of him who most deserved to suffer. That head was mine. From the Leisure Hour. AN INCIDENT IN OUR HONEYMOON. I Do not know if any one else will think | gave one the idea of perfect happiness and the story I am going to try to write down as interesting as we-that is, John and I -did. I will try to tell it in the simple words in which it was told to us. But, first, I must say that we heard it during our honeymoon, which we were spending at a cottage in the beautiful park of Lord ; I shall call him Dimdale. The cottage was situated in a wild and lonely part of it; and the deer used to come up close to the door, and lie under the fine old oaks, through whose branches the sun glimmered on the soft warm turf and clumps of young fern. And how the birds sang! for it was the beginning of May, and fine hot weather. But to come at once to the story. In one of our walks, we had made acquaintance with the clergyman, Mr. Morton, an old man, with a placid sweet smile, and long snow-white hair, who somehow peace. He asked us to drink tea with him in his vicarage, to which we gladly agreed; and he led us through paths in the forest, all bordered with primroses and bluebells, to a small house covered with creepers and in front having a garden as neat as you can imagine a garden to be, and full of old-fashioned flowers, such as crown imperials, starch hyacinths, and polyanthus, and sweet with southernwood, etc. On entering the house, I perceived that the parlor was full of children's toys and work-baskets, and I expected every moment that a whole flock of grandchildren would come rushing in; but none appeared. I suppose Mr. Morton observed my surprise, for while we were at tea, before the open window, he said: "Mrs. Fairfield, I see you looking at those toys, and wondering what little children come here to enliven an old man's loneliness; but no | in that sunshine, and tended those flowers child comes here. The little girl whose with him. busy fingers last dressed that wooden baby, would have been an old woman now, and the merry boys who laughed and shouted at play with those horses, would have been elderly, care-worn men. Yes, they were mine; and in one week they all left me." I uttered some exclamation of pity, and he went on in a dreamy voice, as if more to himself than to us, looking from the window all the time: "Yes, thank you, my dear young lady. In one week, wife and children were taken, and I became the solitary man I have been ever since. It was in a fever," he continued, after a pause" a fever brought here by some wanderers, who came one night to a barn near the village, where one died, and from whom the infection spread. The weather was very bad for it-burning hot and very dry; there was no rain or dew, so that the flowers drooped and the leaves withered with the summer sun beating down all day long. There were deaths around me every day, and the bell was always tolling for the passing of a soul or a funeral. They brought the coffins that way," and he pointed to a green path out of the forest," in the evening, when one could hardly see them and their attendants against the dark green foliage in the dusk. "I went to the sick as much as possible; but I took every possible precaution against infection to my wife and children. We would have sent our darlings away, but we had no one to send them to, and we were a mile and a half away from any infected house. We had three children: Ellen, about eight years old, a thoughtful, quiet, loving little thing, older than her years. How she used to trot about the house after her mother, trying to help her, and looking up at her, with calm deep blue eyes. Then there were Hugh and Harry, rosy boisterous boys, and their mother-Ellen, Ellen. All that your bride can be to you, Mr. Fairfield, my wife was to me." He was silent, and looked from the lattice window into the sweet spring evening, at the swallows darting about in the sunshine, the young green leaves and the flowers, whose scent floated through the open window, thinking of the dear companion who had once walked by his side "One evening," he went on, "I was at liberty, and we took the children out, letting the breeze, what there was of it, blow from us to the village. We went to a hill, from whence we could see the silent village afar off. The boys ran about and shouted in their glee, but little Ellen came and laid her golden head on my knee, and looked in my face, with her deep sweet eyes. She said: 'Papa, there must be a great many people sorrowful down there in the village. I would like to help them. I wish we could comfort them. I should like so much.' I told her how we could help them, by asking Him who sends us all our troubles to help us to bear them patiently, knowing that they are sent in love and pity. Then we walked home, for the sun was setting like a red ball of fire. The children gathered great nosegays of roses and honeysuckles, which they put in water when we got home. The smell of a honeysuckle always brings that evening again before me. "My darling laid her doll to sleep just as it lies now, and wished it and myself good-night; the boys arranged all their playthings, and then their mother took them to bed, and I sat here, where I am now, looking into the darkening night. I heard them sing the evening hymn-Ellen and her mother, softly and clearly-the boys with loud, eager, joyous voices-and my heart was very thankful for the many blessings vouchsafed to me. "That night there was a great cry in our house, as in Egypt of old, for our first-born was to die. The fever had begun. Our frighted servants ran from the house at midnight, and we were left alone with our stricken child. The morning dawned. The boys awoke, and we bid them dress themselves, and go and play in the forest. Meanwhile I went to Marston, the nearest town, for the doctor and a nurse, resolved on their arrival, that I would take the boys away to the woodman's wife, Annice; I knew she would take care of them. But neither nurse nor doctor could be spared from Marston; and all that burning July day we watched by our darling's bed, listening to the distant sound of the boys at play in the forest, commingling with her ravings. Hardly ravings either, for there was nothing frightful; all was happiness and peace, as her young life had been. She talked of Harry and Hugh, of her birds and flowers, | Harry left us. He was so strong and so and of appearing in the presence of her dear Saviour. "At last the long, dreadful day was wearing away. The sun was lowering, and we saw the struggle was nearly over. Those who had that fever rarely lived more than twenty-four hours, even the strong, much less one like our darling. About sunset I heard a voice under the window. It was Annice, who had heard of our trouble and had come to help us. I went down to speak to her, and she told me we were to part with our merry healthy boys. I had not dared to go near them all day; but we had heard their voices within an hour. But Annice had found them, and recognized the ghastly signs too well. I knew, too, as soon as I saw them. I went back to tell their mother, and we sent Annice to be with them, and staid with the one from whom we were first to part. "It was dark now, and the stars came out, and a red glow on the horizon showed where the moon was to rise by and by. Ellen was talking of walking as we had done last night. Papa, I am very tired; do carry me home; we are coming very near home now, aren't we, very near home? Then we were in church. You have seen how the sunset light shines on the monument to the Lady Dimdale, lighting up the sweet pure face that is raised to heaven? She thought she saw it. 'It is growing dark; I want to see the glory on the monument. Ah! there it is; the head is all bright and shining. It is looking at me. I am coming. Such a glory is all around. I am coming. Wait till the hymn is sung, or papa and mamma will be vexed. And she raised herself, and stretched out her arms; and, as loud and sweet as last night she had sung in health and reason, she now sung the evening hymn: 'Glory to thee, my God, this night, And so singing, the angel of Death, that had come so gently to her, took her home. We stood by her grave that night under the solemn stars, and, grief-stricken, thanked the chastening Father for the child he had given and taken away. "But a great horror fell on me when we went back to our remaining dear ones. It was in bitter anguish that our little healthy, that he struggled hard to live. He wanted to be out in the forest at play, he said, to feel the fresh air, and to cool his burning hands in the sparkling brook. No vision of glory calmed his last hour, and we were thankful when the end had come. "Then Hugh woke up from the deadly stupor in which he had lain. He saw his brother lie still and quiet in his little crib; and when his mother took him on her lap, he said in his own sweet lisping voice: 'Harry is better now; I'll be better soon, mamma.' "His mother told him Harry would never be ill any more, and never sorry; but, taken to his Saviour, would rest and be happy for evermore. "I'll rest, too, till morning, mamma;' and so, clasping his little hands round her neck, he went to his eternal rest; and we were childless! "After the little coffins had been laid by the first we had followed there, Ellen, my only Ellen, and I sat together on that seat in the twilight. Well do I remember the night. The air was heavy with the scent of hay and flowering bean-fields; bats wheeled round our heads, and great white moths and cockchaffers flitted past us. We talked of our darlings, and how perhaps even then their angel spirits were near us; and we felt that it was well. We had laid them in the dark bosom of the earth for a time; but it would soon pass away-oh! very, very soon, and then how light the present bitterness! "And, dear heart,' I said to my beloved one, we have still each other; we will not be desolate.' And we felt peace in our hearts, even the peace of God, that the world can not give. But the pestilence that walketh in darkness had not yet done its mission. "My dearest,' my wife said to me one day, 'I am going to leave you too; you will then be alone, but do not let your heart break. A little while-a few years -and then we shall all meet together before the throne of the Lamb!' "I watched one day by my wife's dy ing-bed, with Annice, and I remember no more. A long frightful dream, a deep stupor succeeded. When I awoke it was evening, and the golden sunshine was in my room. From the window I could see into the forest; I saw that rain had fallen, and the grass and leaves were green again. The lurid mist had cleared away, and the sky was soft and blue. All looked joyous and glad; but I knew there was no more earthly gladness for me: the blessed rain had fallen on the graves of all I loved, and the grass grew green upon them. "I need not tell of all I suffered; it has long gone by. When I first came down here from my chamber, all was as I had left it the night that sorrow first fell upon us. The very flowers, gathered by the little hands that were stilled forever, were there, but dry and dead. I would not let any thing be moved. So they have been for fifty years, and so they will be till I join those who left them there. And in the quiet evening I can see them unaltered before me. Ellen, my wife, with her quiet eyes and smile, in the wicker-work chair; and little Ellen deftly working by her side, with a sedate womanly look on her sweet face; and the boys at noisy play around them. And then I feel that I am alone. But He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, has helped me through all my lonely days. "And now all I have to tell is told. Perhaps you wonder at my telling it. I could not have done it twenty, nor even ten years ago; but I am now an old man, eighty-five years of age; and it can not be long ere the changes and chances of this mortal life are over for me. A long life have I had, and rest will be sweet after the burden and heat of the day. I never see the sunset light on the Lady Dimdale's sweet face, without thinking of the shining glory round that angelic head, that seemed to call my little Ellen home, and longing for the time when I too shall go home to her, and her gentle mother, and her two happy brothers." And when Mr. Morton was silent, we rose up gently, and bade him good-night, and walked home through the quiet forest. The influence of his calm resigned spirit seemed to us to pervade all things; and I earnestly prayed that when our day, dark or sunshiny as it may be, is over, and the golden evening falls, that the wondrous peace which is his, may be ours also. John and I, as we walked along, talked seriously of our future life, and of the vast importance of possessing that faith in God, and trust in the Saviour, which alone would fit us to endure with calmness the shocks of earthly sorrow and trial. And the twilight fell gently around us as we came to the cottage-door. TO A SEA-GULL SEEN OFF THE CLIFFS OF MOHER. |