Bitter-sweet

A sjmphony of soumi and lighL and ceut. A voice of many birds twitterïg delicately to each otlier from newr built nests, amid boughs that swayed .o and fro in the wind, and shook their a test buds i uto lea f and blossom. Ino the woodland from far below carne a mrmur oí waves trailing on a shingly teach, and mingling with this murmur, ie talk and Iaughter of the fishermen nellowed by distance. Right down hrough the sloping woodland a brooket leaped tinkling and gurgling to the ea. The dim fragrauce anddappled lighls nd pleasant sounds of the day made a iree-fold joy to a young girl who ;ood beneath the trees in the April oon. She stood on a part of the slope vhence the trees liad drawn back a litle, and the light feil about her ju3t boyond the verge of the shadow. Round her feet were dead leaves aüd living flowers, and soft green mosses full of the sweet rain that had fallen all the previous night. With one hand she shaded her eye?, the otlier was uplif ted to tend back a branch wkiuh liad barred the open space. Her hair was blown in a brown cloud about her face, and her hazel eyes shone witli a serious joy beneath the shading hand. For the flrst time In her life slio was tasting that singular gladness which comes to mind and body, wheii alone wjth nature in Spring, after a long illness. ïo this full content of hers, all the long bours of fevered tossing to and fro, followed by tedious week3 of convalescence, were but a background. And nowintoherloiieliness thcre carne nother human presence - a young man, arelessiy whistling, treading gayly ver moes and flówers tiil lio reacbed he rivulet, and paused on the further ide, looking at the tall, slim figure in .he soft gray gown, crowned by the jrown huil and wistful face. Just one moment, and he turnedoff alittlehigher up and sprang across the stream. )nly one look, and there night have been no second; tlieir lives ralght have glided apart forever, but for an accident - orwhat we cali an accident; whicb is really a strong link in many a chain of life. As his foot louched the bank he slipped on the damp earth, spraining his ankle in tho fall. IIo drew Lümsclf into a sitting posture and leaned against a tree, faint with pain. The young girl carne (jiiickly toward liim. "1 will run and get help." ahe said, and meeting his grateful look for a moment, went quickly along the path that led toward Cloverleigh, the village whore she and her father were staying. At a turning she met a tall scholaiiy looking man. "I was looking lor yon, Margaret. Are you wiso to go bareheaded, my ehild?" he a&id anxiously. My bat feil into the brook, and il is so mild. But, oh! papa, there is a gentleman hurt down there. Ho has sprained I113 ankle and cannot walk.' And she waved her hand toward tlie wood8 below. Thoy found him faint and white, buthe made lightof hissuffering as they helped him through the fringe of apple and peach trees to his lodging in Cloverleigh.' Most of our lives are Bitter-Sweet but if there is one period in it when the bitter and sweet are super lative, it is when love takes possession of soul and body as instrumenta where on to play his mighty preludes. Margaret Townsend had lived alone almost all her life, with her father, a qiüet student, loring hi a daughter anc his books, and so her life was f uil of as sociations, but not of friends. None of the bloom has been worn off her soul by that playing at love called ílirtation. She has read, with a certain solemaity, some old books whereln mention was made of men who had died and done other thiags for love; and ahe may have had dreams on the subject, but fllmy and shifting as dreams generally are. Her father had taught her Greek, and so 'she chanced upon the poets,' and their thoughts had given flavor to her own. Some time before this had come illiiess; it had seemed at one moment as if she must cross the narrow bound of time into the wide spaces of eternity; but well enough now to enjoy the change of the quaint Devonshire flshing village, perched in the rift of a headland among ancestral trees and bowers of ash and apple and pear. It is unique, this village, with its hundred steps leading down to the quay and the shingly shore. The houses rise one above the other, and the quaint rooms in then are let in summer to visitors with good walking powers. lts only inn is a temple of bric-a-brac, and, in summer, is crowded with pilgrims visiting one of the shrines of nature. In this sequestered solitude the father and daughter and Dr. John Enderby were at present the only strang-Gfs, and theyoung doctor, af ter two or three days, limped iuto Álargaret's sunlit sitting room, into which the light filtered tlirough a network of budding apple boughs. Ilere he would sit and watch Margaret at work, or listen to her as she read some Old "World book to her father, her fresli young voice contrasting with the offctimes crabbed style, and as he thus watched her she grew inexpressibly pleasant to him. Pleasant, and that was all. Buf, to Maigaret 'i Without one vord of warning, had come the crownng affection of her life. 'Ileavcn Iie3 ibout us in our infancy,' then fades away. But once more it lies about the man and woman in the mellow time of 'outh with a beauty that baby eyes ïever yet beheld, and earth borrows of this heavenly light. Did ever such sunlight pass through the rosy film of the apple blossoms ihat nostled agiiinst the wall canil made a bower bef ore Margaret's window ? And as for the blue bay glearning bölow - wa3 it really so cniol after all? Did so many husbauds and fathers and sons lie tossiug in its depths. It looked so caresning, washing the feet of the red cliffs where the greenery crept down to meet it. Jolm was free to come and go as he liked in the blossom-screened room, helding learned converse with Mr. ïownsend, meeting liisdaughter in the wooda, sometimes lielping her over the rocks in search of anemones. On fine eveniugs the threo would alt on the little semicircular pier that encloaed the quay and watch the sunset fetdiog and the darkncss nestlingdown .1 ï ong the wooded headlauds, and the great evening star suddenly appearing in the blue above the paling primrose that touched the water. After that the sky would swiftly fill with stars, and the moon would spring into theairy silence, and hor light would penétrate sky and cliff-hung village, the Ugbts would apear one by one in the Windows abdve, and they would climb homeward. All this fed the warm friandliness he feit íor her, which is often mistaken for love. The fragrance of her Ufe íilled his imagination, and he determined to raake her his wife. But of that delicious agony, that glorious fear tliat makes pallid the face of the lover, the vo!d in the life must be filled by the presence of a beloved woman - what didheknowï Notiiing. His nature was as yet cold, hers was all aglow. If she had never seen him again, it is improbable that she would ever havecared for another; perhaps she would have waited in eternity for the sequence of that flrst glauce of his. They lingered on till the honeysuckle wooed the meadow-sweet in the deep lanes above the village, and the young summer was in its beauty. Then there carne a moment when, the two being alone in the woodland path overhanging the sea, Jolm asked Margaret to be his wife. It was the sweetest time of the afternoon, just before sunset. when the day has lost its weariness and the sky is calm, and the sunshine is dimmed by a soft haze. Mr. Townsend had left thern in order to wrlte a letter which he had forgotten, and the others had sauntered toward the village in dreatny sileuce. Then she Ijecarao aware that he was asking hor to be his wife, telling her that she was the sweetest woman lic liad ever seêu. Whence then her midden shrinking from him, as in fear ? 'I am not good enough,' sho cried. She was af raid of lier joy, for she was a timid woman, but in the midst of his wooing ho was vexed at her humility, not undorstauding it, for he was only offering her a scanty armful of firstfruits, and she was returning kim the f uil harvest of her soul, though she did not know its value. He drew her to him and ldssed the brown head and laia it on hls breast. She began to c:y -she had been so greedy of joy lately, and here v.'as its perfection! And he"? - weil, ít was Ihe swcetest hour he had ever passed in his life. This giil, with her simple dress and manuei', and her serious brown eyes and undertone of joyf ulness about her, satistied the more spiritual side of hia nature. And yet she was nol the ideal of his past, which ideal had been compounded of soft-voiced Cordelia, passionate Juliet, bright Rosalind, witty Beatrice, aud daar üesdemonia - in fact, of all the sweets of many natures compacted into one. She was not his heroino, but he was her hero, and her gladness inclined toward saduess; fora true woman sees herself valueless at the moment she believes that the "man of men" sees in her a preciotis jewel. 'Are you sorrj ?' he asked, half jesliugly. 'Sorry!' she said, aud, with a frank yet coy ge3ture, she nestled close to his heart. Windborough is a country town.seated in the midst of a smiling plain which stretches to a line of low wooded hills on the north, and losea itself in the far horizon in every other direction. It ia a sleepy town, full of old house! and old traditiona, and prides itaelf rather on its ruina than on lts famous woolen manufacture. It 3 built intho form of a cross - indeed, ita main street is called Crossgate. In one of the arms of the cross - the ono toward "Woodleigh, with its famous old csistle- are the best houses, in which the smaller gentry and the professional men live. At the end of the Wootlleigh road was Dr. Enderby'a house, large and old-fashioned ; and hither ho brought his wife Margaret not long af ter their flrst meeting in the Cloverleigh woods. It was ;i change from the intense auiet of hor girlhood to a large circlo of frieiulsaid a few secret enemip.s. But she was John's wife, and her swoct gaie'y fllled his house with sunshine ; and she slmped herself a home in all gladness. The old rcd-brick house hadpJeasajit rooms, fllled with comfortable f urnituiv, suft ly cushionedchairs, low tables, ai'.d plenty of flowers ; there were ]io dingy-looklDg dados, no sad-looking discolored blossoms worked on kitchen towels. As Margaret was not costhetic, she preierred cheerful chintz and soft velvet. Her own sanctum was a small room overlooking the garden, and furnitshed with soft shadesof green. There were oak shelves fllled with her favorite books, a writing table, and a few low chairs. At the window were white lace curtains, and on the mantle-piece a jar of Venetian glas3 that looked like a fragment of sunset. Near the window was a stand of flowers that varied according to the seasons. In spring there were spring roses and violets - even a few tulipa ; in suramer rosea .and mignonette ; in autumn and winter fcrns and moses, with perhapsa red geranium to light thein up. Outside in the garden was a great elm overhanging the lawn, and the flower beds were as oldfashioned as the house. In this room of MargareL's John Enderby loved to rest in his iuterva's of eisure, watching 1Ú8 wife with an in;erest and a strange timidity that gi'ew deeper day by day. Poor Margaret feit lim furtlier from her, and a shadow feil across her lifo that the little son could not wholly chase away. When he child was about nine montha old it ïappened that she was ofteu alone, for t was an unhealthy autumn, and Dr. Enderby's services were in great requisition, not onlyamongtlie rich, butalso among the poor - for he was generoua as well as aklllful. Now and then he would come iu and resume lus oíd habit of silently watching and listening to ïer talk about little Jack. IIow slic oved that child ! What sweet ïnusic ïis liny fingers discoursed on tbftt mother's heart-strings ! Oiio afternoon her husband carne in is she was sittingwiththe child on her mee - a bright, fair-haired, brown-eyed xy, very like his ;'f ather. Tho baby strolched out nis dimpled arma to his ather, then with a child's mischief withdrow them, and hid his face on his mother's bosom with a cooing laugh. She bent her head down on the flulïy curls, and caught his little bare f eet in ïer hand (he had pulled off his shoes ind socks, the littlo rogue,) and she kissed the rosy toes with lovely mother worship. 'Look, John,' she said, 'isn't he the nost vvouderfully sweet child, this preiou.i baby? What shotild we do without him ?' She was Qushed and laughing, bnt a harp pang iiashed through as he anwered quietly, "Yes, he is a fine boy !or hls age,' and, bending down, kissed íini ; but he went away af ter that witliut í'urther speech. It often happcned o now, and Margaret could not divine .he cause; so she was hurt, and turned ;o the baby for comfort. On this occasion the doctor went to lis study, locked the door, and sat clown o wrestle with himself, also to tafya tock of his forces for that wrestilng. terrible and sweet revelation to the nan ! He had, as the phrase goes, 'allen in lovc - fortunately with his vite. ïhis, then, was the meaniug of lia silence, his jealousy, of the tearing away of his oíd pleaaant friendliness toward her. This lo ve of his was no lame that would flash and die out, but ho strong white heat, the very soul of ;he heavenly flre. He was a good man, upright and .rue; but he had often played at love efore his marriage, "ere life-time and ove-time were one," and he was being mshed now, for he doubted whether ïer love had not declined into that rlendliness whieh he had given her be'ore, and she was absorbed in the child. Was she, then, one o[ luose women in wliom the instinct of motherhood is stronger than all other ? He worsli iped ïer now with the f uil saered passion o! his inanhood, and was his own child to come between, and shut him away f rom her ? She would bo always swectly dutiful, lie knew that - but a man is nothing if he doe3 not want more than that; and what was his life to be if she and tho child d welt apart in a little paradise of thcir own ? He wüs jealous of his own child. They were thrue middlo-agod spin sters, wlio had failed to enter the holy estáte of matrimony in spite of an earneat desiro to do so. "Wlien the roses of youth and riches were no hmger for them they would fain have culled the chrysanthemums of life'sautumn; but, alas! even those sad and scentless er3 were denied tbem. 80 these three ïad been soarcd, or rather were unloved hrough a certain souruess oC nature which the masculino poition of mankind had had sagacity onougli to perceive and to avoid. Miss Mosa, Miss Brown, and Mis3 Jones were friendo, and much of the mischief in WindImrough miglit be tniced to them. For instance, had they not discovered Mr. Blight the curate's shaineful fUrtation witli little Miss Wilson ? and hore way Dr. Enderby taking to liis old flirting ways again ! If be liad inarried a sensible, intellectual person, slie might hare eured him by carefully looking after him; but now liis atlending the meetings of theBook Club without liis wite, and walking homo with little Miss Fry and her Quaker rnother, boded no good. So said they, shaking their heads. Tuis was after morning service on Sunday, and they resolved that on Monday morniDg, while the doctor was away on bis rounds, they would cali and enlighten Iiis wife. 'Jt will do her good, thing,' tliey remarked. So the three cime on Monda; moming, and, after a few commonplaces, Miss Moas, who was a fatled beauty, ;md therefore the bitterest, began. '2ÍOW, mydearMrs. Enaerby, we can see that you are auffering poor dear, and 110 wonder!' Margarut Jooked at tliem bewtldeitd. 'I am quite well,' she said. 'But about the Doctor, my dear; we have known hirci so long and anderstand his ways. If you had been a liltle more exporienced you would have looked better afteryour husband.' 'But he isnot 11], answered the wife still more bewildered. 'ot in body,' remarked Miss Brown, with a significant smile; 'but in miud wc rnean ; he paya great attention to the Frys next door, you knovv.' And Miss Fry is very pretty.' addcd Miss Jones. If ahe had not been BoaDgry Margaret would havo laughed; John liad walked home witli their neighbors twice, and she was very fond of thetc. John tnight not love her; that she had found out, she Ihought; bet she knew him to be tlie very soul of honor. She was generally so quiet, that when her anger blazed out they wero startlcd. 'Will you be so goed as to leave my husband's affairs alone?' she said. 'If you wish to be wicked there is no reeá to show such bad taste as to come here and endeavor to do harm.' And then they, feeling that for once they had been vanquished, qnickly took their departure. But their words had left a 3ting behind them. Was it so visible, then, even to these gossips, the fact that she had found out some timeago, namely, that she was not to him all that he was to her'? When she had discovered it, she had determined to take thankfully, wliat hecould give; but, alas! beloved, who wül be grateful for a few erumbs seeing a f uil meal beyond? The hunger of the soul cannot be stifled; it crips out lor food. Wel!, sho tried not to blame him; he had mistaken his feeling lor her, and was tired of her; but there was her baby. She never told her husband of that visit, tliough she believed he regretted his marriage; she only clung to the child- such a fraii little reed to lean upon. And one day it broke, it was a Sunday - one of those sweet days in the late autumn v.hich nature Baves out of the summer. The trees had lost their leaves, and the sunshine showed all their delicate Irregularity - their beauty of mere form. which had Deen ludden iy tlie ioilage. The golden astera and red geraniums etill brightened the sheltered garelen. A ball was lyiug on the frosly grass, but tho tiny nngers that had played with it would never touch it more, for Baby Jack was goíngfast toa land in which, let us not say.there are no toys for the children. You remember Martin Luther's letter to hia boy Hans, iu which hetells hiin of alovely Taradise, wlth golden toys, whips, and drum-!, iUid childiah delights. This little child was dying of croup. His mother could only hold tlio little foriu on her knee, while John knelt beside her trying useless remedies to comfort her. At last he atood stil], looking down sorrowf ully at the signa of ebbing life. Suddenly he knelt aud touched the little clenched hand wilh hú lips, and heavy tears splasbed down upon it- his dear lütlo boy: it was hard! Margaret bent forvvard. 'You do love hiui, John!' Slie was jealous for him that he shóuld have his full share of love before ho went. John understood, and his look answered her. What instinct had made her ask? The fiuttrting breath grew sliorter andshorter; it was near the end now, and little Jack opened his eyes and said, for the flrst and last timp, quite clearly, 'Mamma.' That was all she was to have - the one word, and the angels would have the rest. Terrible, awf ully mysterious death had borne away the spirit of the babe, and left only the little body cold and white as a sñow-wreath ; but a smile hovered ou tho tiny face. John comforted his wife, but her grief grew silent. She waa gentle to him, but her thoughts were with the dead child. She told herself that it was better that he should be with the angels, and he would sing liymns, and perhaps play in the golden streets, but she had a hurt feeling, for he would never be her own baby again. Mothers' hearts are hungry things, and she feit that she had nothing left. Her husband divined this mixed feeling, but in the shyness of his now love could not penétrate her silence. Af ter a while her strength failed; aud, in great anxiety, he brought her back to Cloverleigh, to the old rooms that had been bowered by the apple blossoms, but blossoms and birds were all gone now. Here Margaret grew restless; hor thoughts turned from little Jack for the ürst time, and the afternoon af ter they carne she wandered out by herself to the woods above the hoii3e. The sun was shining and there were one or two late daisies in the grass. She stopped and gathered tliem. Here was tho place where John had asked her to be bis wife, and with a pang she remembered the intensity of her joy. Ah I how tho potáis had Jallen hom the llower. It had been uujust oí John to take her without loving her. He had sought her and wooed her, and now she was so lonely. She heard his step and turued to hide from hlin, but tho trees were bare now. Half curiously she looked at him. He had not seen her yet, for his eyes were beut on the ground. Uuconscious of her presence, he took no pains to hide his deapondency, and slw could see how worn waa the handsome, kindly face. Coutemplating him thus she forgot herself, and the old strong love shone ia her eyes. Ho looked np and saw her pale and slim in her black dress, but there was that in those eyes which drew him to her to murniur in her ear how much he loved her, and she turned to him as sho had never done before. 'I am not worthy, dear,' he said, having also leamed the divine humility. So the bitter changes entirely to sweel; not suddenly, for it took some time for Margaret to lose her jealousy of the angels. And that time was chronicled in her soul as "the winter our baby died, and I iirst knew how dear I was to