A LETTER FROM DONALD.
Minnie is in her little bedroom, and she is looking, with a shy surprisemixed with just a little guilt (which is sometimes so delicious), at herblushes in the glass. In her hand was a letter. That letter was fromDonald. It had been handed to her at the breakfast table, and she hadhastened to her room to have the luxury of secret perusal. With lovethere are only two beings in the entire universe. You say love isselfish. You are mistaken. Love loves secrecy. A blabbing tongue, thecommon look of day, kills love. The monopoly that love claims is the lawof its being. If I transcribed Donald's letter you would say it was avery commonplace production. But Minnie kissed it twice, and put itsoftly in her bosom. The letter announced that he was home again, andthat he would shortly pay her a visit. It just hinted that things werenot going on well at home; but Minnie's sanguine temperament found nosinister suggestion in the words.
The letter had made her happy. She put on her hat, and, taking the pathat the back of the house that joined that which led to the mountain, shewas soon climbing to the latter's summit.
It was a beautiful spring day. The sunlight seemed new, and young,and very tender. The green of the trees was of that vivid hue whichexpresses hope to the young, and sadness to the aged. To the former itmeans a coming depth and maturity of joy; to the latter, the fresh,eager days of the past--bright, indeed, but mournful in their brevity.
Minnie sat down upon a rustic seat, and gave herself up to one of thosedelicious day-dreams which lure the spirit as the mirage lures thetraveller.
She began to sing softly to herself--
"Thou'lt break my heart thou warbling bird, That wantons through the flowering thorn; Thou 'minds me o' departed joys, Departed--never to return."
Why those lines were suggested, and why her voice should falter insadness, and why tears should spring to her eyes, she did not know. Tosome spirits the calm beauty of nature, and the warm air that breathesin balm and healing, express the deepest pathos. The contrast betweenthe passion and suffering of life, and the calm assurance of unruffledjoy which nature suggests, pierces the heart with an exquisite sadness.
Poor Minnie, she sang the lines of "Bonnie, Doon," all unconscious thatthey would ever have any relation to her experience.
But Minnie would bear her grief, and say, "God is love."
She had never subscribed to a creed, and although Mill and Huxley werestrangers to her, her whole nature protested against any system of whichviolence was one of the factors.
Minnie was simply good. When she encountered suffering, and found thatit was too great for human relief, she would whisper to her heart, "Byand by." What by and by meant explained all to Minnie.
We spend years upon the study of character, and the cardinal featuresoften escape us. A dog has but to glance once into a human face. Hecomprehends goodness in a moment. The ownerless dogs of the villageanalyzed Minnie's nature, and found it satisfactory. They beamed uponher with looks of wistful love. She had them in the spring and summerfor her daily escort to the mountain.
That was a testimonial of fine ethical value.
"Why, what am I dreaming about?" Minnie exclaimed, after she had sat forabout an hour. "Why are my eyes wet? Why do I feel a sadness which Icannot define? Am I not happy? Isn't Donald coming to see me? Will wenot be together again? Isn't the sun bright and warm, and our littlehome cheerful and happy? Fancies, dreams, and forebodings, away withyou. I must run home and help mother to make that salad for dinner."
The world wants not so much learned, as simple, modest, reverent women,to sweeten and redeem it!