The first thing that roused us was the tap of the drum for supper. The long hours of that sunny summer’s afternoon had slipped by, as I listened to a story, which, in Victor Hugo’s hands, would be worked into a romance quite as thrilling as anything he has ever penned; whilst in mine it must remain forever,—a deposit sacred as the grave. My object was accomplished. With a smile, he rose—the first I had ever seen on his face—saying, “You were right about that moral knapsack; my heart feels lighter than I ever thought it could again.”
“And you will do as I say?”
“I will try.”
“And you will try too, won’t you, to remember my first advice, some time since, and learn to laugh a little more?”
“Indeed I will; and it seems as if it might be possible now, but let me tell you——”
“Nothing more to-day,” said I, laughing; “I must refuse any further confidence;” and running down stairs to our room, I was complimented upon the promptitude with which I performed an errand. No matter, thought I;—if one sad soul has found comfort in pouring out the bitter sorrows of a life, the hours have not rolled by in vain. Are we not all responsible for each day, nay, for each hour, as it passes? Not alone for the right use of time in improving our own souls, but for the manner in which we act upon others. Influence! The language scarcely holds a more solemn word,—the mind scarcely receives a more fearful thought! How has this power been exerted? We all possess it in greater or less degree. We all shall have to render an account for the use or misuse of such a terrible talent.
“The deeds we do, the words we say,
Into still air they seem to fleet;
We count them ever past,