Mary shrunk within herself—it takes more than a few words, a struggle, or a single prayer to uproot a desire for human love from a woman’s heart.
He did not reason with her, or upbraid her then, but only said:
“God will find a way—have no fear, all human beings have some road to happiness if they will but let the Heavenly Father point it out. Good-night Mary.”
“Good-night,” responded the young girl, while her eyes filled with grateful tears; “good-night, my father!”
He turned around, laid his hands on her head, and blessed her, then stepped into the canoe and disappeared along the path of silver cast downward by the moon. The young girl smiled amid her tears. How dark it was when he found her at noontide; how bright when he went away!
Mary Derwent entered that log-cabin a changed being. She scarcely understood herself, or anything that had filled her life up to that day. Her own nature was inexplicable. One great shock had thrust her forward, as it were, to a maturity of suffering; her smile became mournful and sad in its expression, as if the poor creature had become weary of life and of all living things. She never again joined in the childish sports of her companions.
CHAPTER IV
THE ISLAND COVE
The two sisters stood together under the willow trees that overhung the little cove from which Mary had landed with the missionary three years before. Both had grown into girlhood since then, and both had improved in loveliness; Jane in the bloom and symmetry of her person—Mary in that exquisite loveliness of countenance which touches the soul like music in a sound, or tints in a picture. Jane Derwent was just seventeen years old that day.
“And so you will go, Mary, dear—though this is my birthday? I have a great mind to cut the canoe loose and set it adrift.”
“And then how will your company get to the island?” said Mary Derwent, raising her eyes to the blooming face of her sister, while a quiet smile stole out from their blue depths.