XXIV.

LIFE'S QUIET FLOW.

Ex

OU desire me to tell you something of my heart-life, Francesca. I know not that I have any, in your sense of the term. cept by that daily battle between Good and Evil-to which no anguish and no sorrow bring lasting truce; and of which, surely, I send you voluminous report-my heart gives little sign of life. I think it is slowly healing (or dying, I am doubtful which) down there, in the dusk and the quiet; but I resolutely refuse to make any investigation of the process. It is sore enough still, I suspect, to the touch.

In one thing, I can discover a little improvement. My mind no longer insists upon a daily, hourly wandering through the silent Forum of my Past, mournful with the ruins of vanished glory. The duties and cares of the Present continually start up by the way, and turn it back from that dreary, unprofitable journey. Between Sewing Society interests, and night watchings, and daily lessons with Ruth and Alice, etc., etc., it finds enough of travel and of interest within its immediate sphere. The thousand little present plans and anxieties crowd in; and slowly, but surely, crowd out the heart-depressing tendency to dwell upon the recollection of past sorrow. It is the old story of Gulliver and the Liliputians, told over again and enriched with a new meaning. Though the sorrow is a giant, and not to

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be altogether expelled; yet its enemies are many, and by weaving myriads of minute chains about it, they are able to keep it down. Kind thanks to the busy little toilers! If they have not all been taken into the Divine counsels, they must in some way derive their power and efficacy from the Divine Beneficence.

But what changes come over us, as we go on our lifejourney! I remember when I thought it would be heaven to enjoy, all day, and never to work! Now I am of the opinion that a higher heaven would be to work all day, and never be tired! Yet the weariness deepens and sweetens the rest!

There it is, Francesca! There seems to be nothing final in opinion or in feeling. No sooner do I come to a conclusion, you see, than some little after-thought steals in to modify it. No wonder brains that try to solve life's problems unaided by those two potent affirmative signs, “God” and "Trust," get bewildered and go fearfully astray. Without these, they can never get a final answer. What they take to be one, soon turns out to be the beginning of

a new term.

Since my last jotting-down, life has flowed very quietly with me. Some few of its ripples, however, deserve characterization.

First, in order, if not in importance, the tea-drinking at Essie Volger's came off according to appointment. She lives in a large, white, maple-shadowed, open-hearted looking mansion; somewhat antiquated in point of style, but comparatively modern, in point of date; yet old enough to have made its place good in men's familiar knowledge and everyday interests. It differs from the prevailing Shiloh pattern, chiefly, in having a portico in front and in lacking a lean-to behind. Its outward expression is one of dignified, yet not ungenial, comfort and amplitude; and the sight of the interior only deepens it. The furniture is older than the house, Mr. Volger having deep-rooted prejudices in

favor of his old-time belongings, not to be easily eradicated, even by the potent influence of his only and idolized daughter. He is a different type of farmer from Mr. Divine,―less genial in manner, more reserved in speech, of a ruggeder texture both without and within. The glance of his eye is keener, the grasp of his hand looser, than those of my largehearted host. Doubtless, he is shrewder at a bargain, closer in calculation, more astute of policy. Certainly, his affairs thrive better. The Divine acres are diminishing in number, year by year; the Volger estate threatens to swallow an entire district.

Mr. Volger's daughter, only, brings anything resembling an illumination to his face. She is the sunshine of his heart, as well as of his dwelling and farm. Witnessing the cheery, widely-diffused influence of her joyous and active temperament, one is half persuaded that the corn grows and the grass greens by it. One moment, she is out in the tenacre lot, picking corn; another, down by the brook, gathering wild iris; the next, out on the lake fishing; anon, bringing in wood from the woodpile; then, in the kitchen concocting a favorite dish (too abstruse to be entrusted to Hagar, the black cook); next, at the piano practising new music; by and by, up on the haymow, hunting hen's nests; soon after, in the parlor, entertaining friends; and finally, saddling or harnessing her dumpy little Canadian pony, and riding or driving off to Clay Corner, or "up street; -nodding, as she goes, to every man, woman, child, negro, Irishman, and whatever other varieties of human nature are to be met with, on the road. Everybody knows her; everybody smiles at sight of her; everybody who has a trouble that seeks outlet, a difficulty that needs to be talked over, a joke that wants to be laughed at, a sorrow that craves sympathy, a message designed for anybody on her way (or even a little out of it), stops her on the road, and presses her remorselessly into the service. She brings the mail; she goes for the doctor; she carries prescriptions

to be filled; she delivers messages and parcels; she has an eye after stray cattle; and she gives every footsore traveler a lift; and every ragged, unwashed urchin, playing at marbles or mud pies, by the roadside, a ride. Her spirits are often so vivacious and wildly effervescent as to seem utterly careless of boundary-lines: yet in virtue of some inherent sense of propriety, never step over them. She is not exactly lady-like, in the conventional sense of that much abused term; but she is something far more healthful, efficient, and delightful. She would seem to have been created for some Arcadian state of society, where that term is as yet unknown, or that meaning still unfolded. Her exact type is rare enough, even in New England; I doubt if it is to be met with elsewhere.

It is manifest that she was a charming hostess. An hour with her checked off more milestones from the journey of acquaintanceship than a day with most people. She soon put Alice more at her ease than I had ever seen her (to be sure, they are far-away cousins, and fast friends); and Ruth quickly felt, and responded to, the frank cordiality of her manner, and the breezy vivacity of her spirits. Yet there was a marked difference in the character of their mirth;-Essie's was that of a heart which had never known sore cross or heavy sorrow; Ruth's, even in its brightest flow, never lost some subtly pathetic quality.

After tea, we rambled down to the shore of the lake aforementioned, which bounds one side of the farm. We were guided thither by a funny little brook, that prattled and gambolled, like a child, all through the meadows, and then tumbled headlong down the hillside, in order to fling itself, laughing, into the placid bosom of the lake, as on to a mother's breast. A light skiff lay by the bank; and Essie rowed us out into the sunset light, and sent a merry "Halloo!" over the shining water, to wake an echo sleeping somewhere among the hills. The answer came back soft and subdued, as if from the lingering influence of a

happy dream; and then Ruth's tender, pathetic voice hushed it to silence and to sleep again with the lovely melody of "Allan Water." In the evening, there was music; and I was agreeably surprised to find that Essie plays unusually well-as playing goes-with a smooth, gliding touch, and much taste and feeling. So well, indeed, that after we had arrived at that point of familiarity where it ceased to be an impertinence (a point quickly reached with her), I ventured to tell her that it was a sin and a shame that she did not play even better;-that is to say, a better class of music, with a deeper comprehension of musical ideas; a profounder knowledge of the depths from which they come, and those to which they address themselves. This brought forth much musical talk, and comparison of studies and masters,-to which Ruth listened like one entranced, and Alice with her usual quick insight, making her lawful prey of analogies and metaphors :-which resulted in an agreement that we-that is, Essie and I-should take up the practice of duets together, beginning with Beethoven's symphonies. By reason of which tuneful copartnership, we have come to be "Essie" and "Winnie " to each other.

We discussed the melodeon, too, and-to cut that matter short-it is now doing its best to engender and promote harmony in that little loft of a gallery at St. Jude's, under Essie's skilful fingers. She entreated me, humbly and earnestly, to play it; but I steadily declined, mindful of Bona's emphatic discourse on that head. Her musical ability was amply sufficient for the need, and there was no excuse for me to thrust myself into the matter; and so deprive both the parish and herself of the benefit of whatever. increase of interest or of energy might be developed in her, by the position. I attend the rehearsals, however, by request; and am made, by tacit concurrence, a sort of musical director.

Next, there has been an arrival of uncommon interest