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Heriot's Choice

<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> <h3>COMING BACK</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 'If Thou shouldst bring me back to life, More humble I should be, More wise, more strengthened for the strife More apt to lean on Thee. Should death be standing at the gate, Thus should I keep my vow, But, Lord! whatever be my fate, Oh, let me serve Thee now!'—Anne Brontë. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> 'This sickness is not unto death.' The news that the crisis had passed, and that the disease that had so long baffled the physician's skill had taken a favourable turn, soon spread over the town like wildfire; the shadow of death no longer lingered on the threshold of the vicarage; there were trembling voices raised in the Te Deum the next morning; the vicar's long pause in the Thanksgiving was echoed by many a throbbing heart; Mildred's book was wet with her tears, and even Chrissy looked softened and subdued. There were agitated greetings in the church porch afterwards. Olive's sick heart would have been satisfied with the knowledge that she was beloved if she had seen Roy's glistening eyes and the silent pressure of congratulation that passed between her father and Richard. 'Heriot, we feel that under Providence we owe our girl's life to you.' 'You are equally beholden to her aunt's nursing; but indeed, Mr. Lambert, I look upon your daughter's recovery as little less than a miracle. I certainly felt myself justified to prepare you for the worst last night; at one time she appeared to be sinking.' 'She has been given back to us from the confines of the grave,' was the solemn answer; and as he took his son's arm and they walked slowly down the churchyard, he said, half to himself—'and a gift given back is doubly precious.' The same thought seemed in his mind when Richard entered the study late that night with the welcome tidings that Olive was again sleeping calmly. 'Oh, Cardie, last night we thought we should have lost our girl; after all, God has been good to me beyond my deserts.' 'We may all say that, father.' 'I have been thinking that we have none of us appreciated Olive as we ought; since she has been ill a hundred instances of her unselfishness have occurred to me; in our trouble, Cardie, she thought for others, not for herself. I never remember seeing her cry except once, and yet the dear child loved her mother.' Richard's face paled a little, but he made no answer; he remembered but too well the time to which his father alluded—how, when in his jealous surveillance he had banished her from her father's room, he had found her haunting the passages with her pale face and black dress, or sitting on the stairs, a mute image of patience. No, there had been no evidence of her grief; others beside himself had marvelled at her changeless and monotonous calm; she had harped on her mother's name with a persistency that had driven him frantic, and he had silenced the sacred syllables in a fit of nervous exasperation; from the very first she had troubled and wearied him, she whom he was driven to confess was immeasurably his superior. Yes, the scales had fallen from his eyes, and as his father spoke a noble spirit pleaded in him, and the rankling confession at last found vent in the deep inward cry— 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before Thee, in that I have offended one of Thy little ones,' and the Deo gratias of an accepted repentance and possible atonement followed close upon the words. 'Father, I want to speak to you.' 'Well, Cardie.' 'I know how my silence has grieved you; Aunt Milly told me. I was wrong—I see it now.' Richard's face was crimsoning with the effort, but the look in his father's eyes as he laid his thin hand on his arm was sufficient reward. 'Thank God for this, my boy, that you have spoken to me at last of your own accord; it has lifted a heavy burden from my heart.' 'I ought not to have refused my confidence; you were too good to me. I did not deserve it.' 'You thought you were strong enough to remove your own stumbling-blocks; it is the fault of the young generation, Cardie; it would fain walk by its own lights.' 'I must allow my motives were mixed with folly, but the fear of troubling you was predominant.' 'I know it, I know it well, my son, but all the same I have yearned to help you. I have myself to blame in this matter, but the thought that you would not allow me to share your trouble was a greater punishment than even I could bear; no, do not look so sorrowful, this moment has repaid me for all my pain.' But it was not in Richard's nature to do anything by halves, and in his generous compunction he refused to spare himself; the barrier of his reserve once broken down, he made ample atonement for his past reticence, and Mr. Lambert more than once was forced to admit that he had misjudged his boy. Late into the night they talked, and when they parted the basis of a perfect understanding was established between them; if his son's tardy confidence had soothed and gratified Mr. Lambert, Richard on his side was equally grateful for the patience and loving forbearance with which his father strove to disentangle the webs that insidious argument had woven in his clear young brain; there was much lurking mischief, much to clear away and remove, difficulties that only time and prayerful consideration could surmount; but however saddened Mr. Lambert might feel in seeing the noxious weeds in that goodly vineyard, he was not without hope that in time Richard's tarnished faith might gleam out brightly again. During the weeks that ensued there were many opportunities for hours of quiet study and talk between the father and son; in his new earnestness Mr. Lambert became less vague, this fresh obstacle roused all his energy; there was something pathetic in the spectacle of the worn scholar and priest buckling on his ancient armour to do battle for his boy; the old flash came to his eye, the ready vigour and eloquence to his speech, gleams of sapient wisdom startled Richard into new reverence, causing the young doubter to shrink and feel abashed. 'If one could only know, if an angel from heaven might set the seal to our assurance!' he exclaimed once. 'Father, only to know, to be sure of these things.' 'Oh, Cardie, what is that but following the example of the affectionate but melancholy Didymus; "Blessed are they that have not seen and yet have believed"; the drowning mariner cannot see the wind that is lashing the waves that threaten to engulf his little bark, cannot "tell whence it comes or whither it goes," yet faith settles the helm and holds the rudder, and bids him cling to the spar when all seems over.' 'But he feels it beyond and around him; he feels it as we feel the warmth of the latent sunshine or the permeating influences of light; we can see the light, father,' he continued eagerly, 'we can lift our eyes eagle-wise to the sun if we will; why should our inner light be quenched and clouded?' 'To test our faith, to make us hold on more securely; after all, Cardie, the world beyond—truth revealed—religion—look to us often through life like light seen from the bottom of a well—below us darkness, then space, narrowed to our perception, a glimmering of blue sky sown thick with stars—light, keen and arrowy, shining somewhere in the depths; some of us rise to the light, drawn irresistibly to it, a few remain at the bottom of the well all their lives.' 'And some are born blind.' 'Let us leave them to the mercy of the Great Physician; in our case scales may fall from our eyes, and still with imperfect vision we may look up and see men as trees walking, but we must grope on still. Ah, my boy, when in our religious hypochondria whole creeds desert us, and shreds and particles only remain of a fragmentary and doubtful faith, don't let us fight with shadows, which of their very nature elude and fade out of our grasp; let us fall on our knees rather, Cardie, and cry—"Lord, I believe—I will believe; help Thou my unbelief."' Many and many such talks were held, the hours and days slipping away, Mildred meanwhile devoting herself to the precious work of nursing Olive back to convalescence. It was a harder task than even Dr. Heriot expected; slowly, painfully, almost unwillingly, the girl tottered back to life; now and then there were sensible relapses of weakness; prostration, that was almost deathlike, then a faint flicker, followed by a conscious rally, times when they trembled and feared and then hoped again; when the shadowy face and figure filled Mildred with vague alarm, and the blank despondency in the large dark eyes haunted her with a sense of pain. In vain Mildred lavished on her the tenderest caresses; for days there was no answering smile on the pallid face, and yet no invalid could be more submissive. Unresistingly, uncomplainingly, Olive bore the weakness that was at times almost unendurable; obediently she took from their hands the nourishment they gave her; but there seemed no anxiety to shake off her illness; it was as though she submitted to life rather than willed it, nay, as though she received it back with a regret and reluctance that caused even her unselfishness a struggle. Was the cloud returning? Had they been wrong to pray so earnestly for her life? Would she come back to them a sadder and more weary Olive, to tax their forbearance afresh, instead of winning an added love; was she who had been as a little child set in their midst for an example of patient humility, to carry this burden of despondent fear about with her from the dark valley itself? Mildred was secretly trembling over these thoughts; they harassed and oppressed her; she feared lest Richard's new reverence and love for his sister should be impaired when he found the old infirmity still clinging to her; even now the sad look in her eyes somewhat oppressed him. 'Livy, you look sometimes as though you repented getting well,' he said affectionately to her one day, when her languor and depression had been very great. 'Oh no, please don't say so, Cardie,' she returned faintly, but the last trace of colour forsook her face at his words; 'how can—how can you say that, when you know you wanted me?' and as the tears began to flow, Richard, alarmed and perplexed, soothed and comforted her. Another day, when her father had been sitting by her, reading and talking to her, he noticed that she looked at him with a sort of puzzled wonder in her eyes. 'What is it, my child?' he asked, leaning over her and stroking her hair with caressing hand. 'Do you feel weary of the reading, Olive?' 'No, oh no; it was beautiful,' she returned, with a trembling lip; 'I was only thinking—wondering why you loved me.' 'Love you, my darling! do not fathers love their children, especially when they have such good affectionate children?' 'But I am not good,' she returned, with something of her old shrinking. 'Oh, papa, why did you and Cardie want me so, your poor useless Olive; even Cardie loves me now, and I have done nothing but lie here and give trouble to you all; but you are all so good—so good,' and Olive buried her pale face in her father's shoulder. The old self-depreciation waking up to life, the old enemy leaguing with languor and despondency to mar the sweet hopefulness of convalescence. Mildred in desperation determined to put her fears to the proof when Olive grew strong enough to bear any conversation. The opportunity came sooner than she hoped. One day the cloud lifted a little. Roy had been admitted to his sister's room, and his agitation and sorrow at her changed appearance and his evident joy at seeing her again had roused Olive from her wonted lethargy. Mildred found her afterwards lying exhausted but with a smile on her face. 'Dear Roy,' she murmured, 'how good he was to me. Oh, Aunt Milly,' clasping Mildred's hands between her wasted fingers, 'I don't deserve for them to be so dear and good to me, it makes me feel as though I were wicked and ungrateful not to want to get well.' 'I dreaded to hear you say this, Olive,' returned Mildred. As she sat down beside her, her grieved look seemed a reproach to Olive. 'It was not that I wanted to leave you all,' she said, laying her cheek against the hand she held, 'but I have been such a trouble to every one as well as to myself; it seemed so nice to have done with it all—all the weariness and disappointment I mean.' 'You were selfish for once in your life then, Olive,' returned Mildred, trying to smile, but with a heavy heart. 'I tried not to be,' she whispered. 'I did not want you to be sorry, Aunt Milly, but I knew if I lived it would all come over again. It is the old troublesome Olive you are nursing,' she continued softly, 'who will try and disappoint you as she has always done. I can't get rid of my old self, and that is why I am sorry.' 'Sorry because we are glad; it is Olive and no other that we want.' 'Oh, if I could believe that,' returned the girl, her eyes filling with tears; 'but it sounds too beautiful to be true, and yet I know it was only Cardie's voice that brought me back, he wanted me so badly, and he asked me to stay. I heard him—I heard him sob, Aunt Milly,' clutching her aunt with weak, nerveless fingers. 'Are you sure, Olive? You were fainting, you know.' 'Yes, I was falling—falling into dark, starry depths, full of living creatures, wheels of light and flame seemed everywhere, and then darkness. I thought mamma had got me in her arms, she seemed by me through it all, and then I heard Cardie say I should break his heart, and then he sobbed, and papa blessed me. I heard some gate close after that, and mamma's arms seemed to loosen from me, and I knew then I was not dying.' 'But you were sorry, Olive.' 'I tried not to be; but it was hard, oh, so hard, Aunt Milly. Think what it was to have that door shut just as one's foot was on the threshold, and when I thought it was all over and I had got mamma back again; but it was wrong to grieve. I have not earned my rest.' 'Hush, my child, you must not take up a new lease of life so sadly; this is a gift, Olive, a talent straight from the Master's hands, to be received with gratitude, to be used joyfully; by and by, when you are stronger, you will find more beautiful work your death would have left unfinished.' A weary look crossed Olive's face. 'Shall I ever be strong enough to work again?' 'You are working now; nay, my child,' as Olive looked up with languid surprise, 'few of us are called upon to do a more difficult task than yours; to take up life when we would choose death, to bear patiently the discipline of suffering and inaction, to wait till He says "work."' 'Dear Aunt Milly, you always say such comforting things. I thought I was only doing nothing but give you trouble.' 'There you were wrong, Olive; every time you suppress an impatient sigh, every time you call up a smile to cheer us, you are advancing a step, gaining a momentary advantage over your old enemy; you know my favourite verses— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Broadest streams from narrowest sources, Noblest trees from meanest seeds, Mighty ends from small beginnings, From lowly promise lofty deeds. </div> <div class="stanza"> "Acorns which the winds have scattered, Future navies may provide; Thoughts at midnight, whispered lowly, Prove a people's future guide." </div> </div> I am a firm believer in little efforts, Olive.' Olive was silent for a few minutes, but she appeared thinking deeply; but when she spoke next it was in a calmer tone. 'After all, Aunt Milly, want of courage is my greatest fault.' 'I cannot deny it, dear.' 'I am so afraid of responsibility that it seemed easier to die than to face it. You were right; I was selfish to want to leave you all.' 'You must try to rejoice with us that you are spared.' 'Yes, I will try,' with a sigh; but as she began to look white and exhausted, Mildred thought it wiser to drop the conversation. The family circle was again complete in the vicarage, and in the evenings a part of the family always gathered in the sickroom. This was hailed as a great privilege by the younger members—Roy, Polly, and Chriss eagerly disputing it. It was an understood thing that Richard should be always there; Olive seemed restless without him. Roy was her next favourite; his gentleness and affection seemed to soothe her; but Mildred noticed that Polly's bright flow of spirits somewhat oppressed her, and it was not easy to check Chriss's voluble tongue. One evening Ethel was admitted. She had pleaded so hard that Richard had at last overcome Olive's shrinking reluctance to face any one outside the family circle; but even Olive's timidity was not proof against Ethel's endearing ways; and as Miss Trelawny, shocked and distressed at her changed appearance, folded the girl silently in her arms, the tears gathered to her eyes, and for a moment she seemed unable to speak. 'You must not be so sorry,' whispered Olive, gratefully; 'Aunt Milly will soon nurse me quite well.' 'But I was not prepared for such a change,' stammered Ethel. 'Dear Olive, to think how you must have suffered! I should hardly have known you; and yet,' she continued, impulsively, 'I never liked the look of you so well.' 'We tell her she has grown,' observed Richard, cheerfully; 'she has only to get fat to make a fine woman. Aunt Milly has contrived such a bewitching head-dress that we do not regret the loss of all that beautiful hair.' 'Oh, Cardie, as though that mattered;' but Olive blushed under her brother's affectionate scrutiny. Ethel Trelawny was right when she owned Olive's appearance had never pleased her more, emaciated and changed as she was. The sad gentleness of the dark, unsmiling eyes was infinitely attractive. The heavy sallowness was gone; the thin white face looked fair and transparent; little rings of dark hair peeped under the lace cap; but what struck Ethel most was the rapt and elevated expression of the girl's face—a little dreamy, perhaps, but suggestive of another and nobler Olive. 'Oh, Olive, how strange it seems, to think you have come back to us again, when Mildred thought you had gone!' ejaculated Ethel, in a tone almost of awe. 'Yes,' returned Olive, simply; 'I know what death means now. When I come to die, I shall feel I know it all before.' 'But you did not die, dear Olive!' exclaimed Ethel, in a startled voice. 'No one can know but Lazarus and the widow's son; and they have told us nothing.' 'Aunt Milly says they were not allowed to tell; she thinks there is something awful in their silence; but all the same I shall always feel that I know what dying means.' Ethel looked at her with a new reverence in her eyes. Was this the stammering, awkward Olive? 'Tell me what you mean,' she whispered gently; 'I cannot understand. One must die before one can solve the mystery.' 'And was I not dying?' returned Olive, in the same dreamy tone. 'When I close my eyes I can bring it all back; the faintness, the dizziness, the great circles of light, the deadly, shuddering cold creeping over my limbs, every one weeping round me, and yet beyond a great silence and darkness; we begin to understand what silence means then.' 'A great writer once spoke of "voices at the other end of silence,"' returned Ethel, in a stifled tone. This strange talk attracted and yet oppressed her. 'But silence itself—what is silence?—one sometimes stops to think about it, and then its grandeur seems to crush one. What if silence be the voice of God!' 'Dear Livy, you must not excite yourself,' interrupted Richard; but his tone was awestruck too. 'Great thoughts do not excite,' she returned, calmly. She had forgotten Ethel—all of them. From the couch where she lay she could see the dark violet fells, the soft restful billows of green, silver splashes of light through the trees. How peaceful and quiet it all looked. Ah! if it had only been given her to walk in those green pastures and 'beside the still waters of the Paradise of God;' if that day which shall be known to the Lord 'had come to her when "at eventide it shall be light;"'—eventide!—alas! for her there still must remain the burden and heat of the day—sultry youth, weariness of premature age, 'light that shall neither be clear nor dark,' before that blessed eventide should come, 'and she should pass through the silence into the rest beyond.' 'Aunt Milly, if you or Cardie would read me something,' she said at last, with a wonderful sadness in her voice; and as they hastened to comply with her wish, the brief agitation vanished from her face. What if it were not His will! what if some noble work stood ready to her faltering hand, "content to fill a little space, if Thou be glorified!" 'Oh, I must learn to say that,' she whispered. 'Are you tired, Livy?' asked Richard at last, as he paused a moment in his reading; but there was no answer. Olive's eyes were closed. One thin hand lay under her cheek, a tear hung on the eyelashes; but on the sleeping face there lay an expression of quiet peace that was almost childlike. It was noticed that Olive mended more rapidly from that evening. Dr. Heriot had recommended change of air; and as Olive was too weak to bear a long journey, Mildred took her to Redcar for a few weeks. Richard accompanied them, but did not remain long, as his father seemed unwilling to lose him during his last few months at home. During their absence two important events took place at the vicarage. Dad Fabian paid his promised visit, and the new curate arrived. Polly's and Chriss's letter brimmed over with news. 'Every one was delighted with her dear old Dad,' Polly wrote; 'Richard was gracious, Mr. Lambert friendly, and Roy enthusiastically admiring.' Dad had actually bought a new coat and had cut his hair, which Polly owned was a grief to her; 'and his beard looked like everybody else's beard,' wrote the girl with a groan. If it had not been for his snuff-box she would hardly have known him. Some dealer had bought his Cain, and the old man's empty pockets were replenished. It was a real joy to Olive's affectionate heart to know that Roy's juvenile efforts were appreciated by so great a man. Mildred, who was almost as simple in worldly matters as her niece, was also a devout believer in Dad Fabian's capabilities. The dark-lined picture of Cain fleeing from his avenging conscience, with his weeping guardian angel by his side, had made a great impression on her. Olive and she had long talks over Polly's rapid scrawls. Roy had genius, and was to be an artist after all. He was to enter a London studio after Christmas. Dad Fabian knew the widow of an artist living near Hampstead who would board and lodge him, and look after him as though he were a son of her own; and Dad Fabian himself was to act as his sponsor, art-guide, and chaperon. 'My guardian thinks very highly of Dad,' wrote Polly, in her pretty, childish handwriting. 'He calls him an unappreciated genius, and says Roy will be quite safe under his care. Dad is a little disappointed Roy's forte is landscape painting; he wanted him to go in for high art; but Roy paints clouds better than faces.' 'Dear Roy, how we shall miss him!' sighed Olive, as she laid the letter down. 'Polly more than any one,' observed Mildred, thinking how strange it would be to see one bright face without the other close to it. The new curate was rather a tame affair after this. 'His name is Hugh Marsden, and he is to live at Miss Farrer's, the milliner,' announced Olive one day, when she had received a letter from Richard. 'Miss Farrer has two very nice rooms looking over the market-place. Her last lodger was a young engineer, and it made a great difference to her income when he left her. Richard says he is a "Queen's man, and a very nice fellow;" he is only in deacon's orders.' 'Let us see what Chriss has to say about him in her letter,' returned Mildred; but she contemplated a little ruefully the crabbed, irregular writing, every word looking like a miniature edition of Contradiction Chriss herself. 'Mr. Marsden has arrived,' scrawled Chriss, 'and has just had tea here. I don't think we shall like him at all. Roy says he is a jolly fellow, and is fond of cricket and fishing, and those sort of things, but he looks too much like a big boy for my taste; I don't like such large young men; and he has big hands and feet and a great voice, and his laugh is as big as the rest of him. I think him dreadfully ugly, but Polly says "No, he has nice honest eyes." 'He tried to talk to Polly and me; only wasn't it rude, Aunt Milly? He called me my dear, and asked me if I liked dolls. I felt I could have withered him on the spot, only he was so stupid and obtuse that he took no notice, and went on about his little sister Sophy, who had twelve dolls, whom she dressed to represent the twelve months in the year, and how she nearly broke her heart when he sat down on them by accident and smashed July.' Roy gave a comical description of the whole thing and Chriss's wrathful discomfiture. 'We have just had great fun,' he wrote; 'the Rev. Hugh has just been here to tea; he is a capital fellow—up to larks, and with plenty of go in him, and with a fine deep voice for intoning; he is wild about training the choir already. He talked a great deal about his mother and sisters; he is an only son. I bet you anything, you women will be bored to death with Dora, Florence, and Sophy. If they are like him they are not handsome. One thing I must tell you, he riled Contradiction awfully by asking her if she liked dolls; she was Pugilist Pug then and no mistake. You should have seen the air with which she drew herself up. "I suppose you take me for a little girl," quoth she. Marsden's face was a study. "I am afraid you will take her for a spoilt one," says Dad, patting her shoulder, which only made matters worse. "I think your sister must be very silly with her twelve seasons," bursts out Chriss. "I would sooner do algebra than play with dolls; but if you will excuse me, I have my Cæsar to construe;" and she walked out of the room with her chin in the air, and every curl on her head bristling with wrath. Marsden sat open-mouthed with astonishment, and Dad was forced to apologise; and there was Polly all the time "behaving like a little lady."' 'As though Polly could do wrong,' observed Mildred with a smile, as she finished Roy's ridiculous effusion. It was the beginning of October when they returned home. Olive had by this time recovered her strength, and was able to enjoy her rambles on the sand; and though Mr. Lambert found fault with the thin cheeks and lack of robustness, his anxiety was set at rest by Mildred, who declared Olive had done credit to her nursing, and a little want of flesh was all the fault that could be found with her charge. The welcome home was sweet to the restored invalid. Richard's kiss was scarcely less fond than her father's. Roy pinched her cheek to be sure that this was a real, and not a make-believe, Olive; while Polly followed her to her room to assure herself that her hair had really grown half an inch, as Aunt Milly declared it had. Nor was Mildred's welcome less hearty. 'How good it is to see you in your old place, Aunt Milly,' said Richard, with an affectionate glance, as he placed himself beside her at the tea-table. 'We have missed you, Milly!' exclaimed her brother a moment afterwards. 'Heriot was saying only last night that the vicarage did not seem itself without you.' 'Nothing is right without Aunt Milly!' cried Polly, with a squeeze; and Roy chimed in, indignantly, 'Of course not; as though we could do without Aunt Milly!' The new curate was discussed the first evening. Mr. Lambert and Richard were loud in their praises; and though Chriss muttered to herself in a surly undertone, nobody minded her. His introduction to Olive happened after a somewhat amusing fashion. He was crossing the hall the next day, on his way to the vicar's study, when Roy bade him go into the drawing-room and make acquaintance with Aunt Milly. It happened that Mildred had just left the room, and Olive was sitting alone, working. She looked up a little surprised at the tall, broad-shouldered young man who was making his way across the room. 'Royal told me I should find you here, Miss Lambert. I hope your niece has recovered the fatigue of her journey.' 'I am not Aunt Milly; I am Olive,' returned the girl, gravely, but not refusing the proffered hand. 'You are my father's new curate, Mr. Marsden, I suppose?' 'Yes; I beg your pardon, I have made a foolish mistake I see,' returned the young man, confusedly, stammering and flushing over his words. 'Royal sent me in to find his aunt, and—and—I did not notice.' 'What does it matter?' returned Olive, simply. The curate's evident nervousness made her anxious to set him at his ease. 'You could not know; and Aunt Milly looks so young, and my illness has changed me. It was such a natural mistake, you see,' with the soft seriousness with which Olive always spoke now. 'Thank you; yes, of course,' stammered Hugh, twirling his felt hat through his fingers, and looking down at her with a sort of puzzled wonder. The grave young face under the quaint head-dress, the soft dark hair just parted on the forehead, the large earnest eyes, candid, and yet unsmiling, filled him with a sort of awe and reverence. 'You have been very ill,' he said at last, with a pitying chord in his voice. 'People do not look like that who have not suffered. You remind me,' he continued, sitting down beside her, and speaking a little huskily, 'of a sister whom I lost not so very long ago.' Olive looked up with a sudden gleam in her eyes. 'Did she die?' 'Yes. You are more fortunate, Miss Lambert; you were permitted to get well.' 'You are a clergyman, and you say that,' she returned, a little breathlessly. 'If it were not wrong I should envy your sister, who finished her work so young.' 'Hush, Miss Lambert, that is wrong,' replied Hugh. His brief nervousness had vanished; he was quite grave now; his round, boyish face, ruddy and brown with exercise, paled a little with his earnestness and the memory of a past pain. 'Caroline wanted to live, and you want to die,' he said, in a voice full of rebuke. 'She cried because she was young, and did not wish to leave us, and because she feared death; and you are sorry to live.' 'I have always found life so hard,' sighed Olive. It did not seem strange to her that she should be talking thus to a stranger; was he not a clergyman—her father's curate—in spite of his boyish face? 'St. Paul thought it was better, you know; but indeed I am trying to be glad, Mr. Marsden, that I have all this time before me.' 'Trying to be glad for the gift of life!' Here was a mystery to be solved by the Rev. Hugh Marsden, he who rejoiced in life with the whole strength of his vigorous young heart; who loved all living things, man, woman, and child—nay, the very dumb animals themselves; who drank in light and vigour and cheerfulness as his daily food; who was glad for mere gladness' sake; to whom sin was the only evil in the world, and suffering a privilege, and not a punishment; who measured all things, animate and inanimate, with a merciful breadth of views, full of that 'charity that thinketh no evil,'—he to be told by this grave, pale girl that she envied his sister who died. 'What is the matter—have I shocked you?' asked Olive, her sensitiveness taking alarm at his silence. 'Yes—no; I am sorry for you, that is all, Miss Lambert. I am young, but I am a clergyman, as you say. I love life, as I love all the good gifts of my God; and I think,' hesitating and dropping his voice, 'your one prayer should be, that He may teach you to be glad.' <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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