"At first, I guess, I thought of nothing at all. You might break me on the wheel, and I couldn't remember any thing. Then I came upon a nest of young quails,--dear little bits of things. I put them on one side, out of the way of the boys. Then I was wishing to see how surprised the old ones would be when they came to find their house in another spot. Then I thought of Nat's song, which you can sing too, about the poor soul. Then I thought, 'Where may Nat have gone to?' Then,--then I thought, 'I'm glad it's only half an hour till dinner-time,' for I was getting mighty hungry. There! that's all: it isn't much, is it?" She tugged bashfully at her sleeves, and could not raise her eyes to his face. Ivo asked again,--
"Don't you sometimes think how wonderful it is that God causes the seed which man throws out to bear sevenfold, and that the young crop sleeps under the snow until the sun wakes it in spring? How many millions of men have already lived upon the juices of the earth, and yet have not exhausted them!"
"Oh, yes, I often think that, but it wouldn't have occurred to me of my own accord: the parson says it often in sermons and in the catechism. You see, when you have to work at all these things yourself you don't find time for such reflections, but only think, 'Will it be ripe soon?' and 'Will it bear much?' The parsons, who don't work in the field, don't carry out the dung, and don't do any threshing, have more time for such thinking."
"But you must seek such thoughts a little, and then you will find them oftener. Won't you, Emmerence?"
"Yes, indeed I will: you are right: it is always well to admonish me. If you ask me often, you'll soon find I shall have more to tell you. I'm not so very stupid."
"You're a dear girl," said Ivo. He was on the point of taking her hand, but restrained himself with an effort, though he could not prevent himself from being more and more absorbed in admiration of her frank and sterling ways.
With a heavy heart Ivo returned to the convent. He admired the heroic endurance of his mother, and vowed to imitate it. But another subject occupied him. Through suffering and pain the paradise of his parental home had uprisen from its ashes, and he saw what an inexhaustible source of happiness is found in the attachment of two loving hearts which cling together the more closely the more rudely they are tossed by life's storms and changes. The undying sorrow of his heart broke forth again. He thought of Emmerence; and, sitting in the dark valley of pines, he wept. Down in the dingle was heard the harsh clang of a saw-mill; and Ivo wished that the boards being sawed there might be nailed into his coffin.
In the next holidays he was again almost constantly at home. Life was happy and peaceful there now. Valentine was regenerated, and a petulant word was never heard. Each member of the household behaved with tender consideration to all the others, and the Palm Sundays of early childhood seemed to have returned. But this very calm was to Ivo a source of unrest; in this very peace grew for him a tree of discord. He saw, with unmantled clearness, the solitary gloom of his own future, and knew that the happiness he witnessed was never to be his.
Two important events enhanced the interest of this vacation. Johnnie, Constantine's father, had had a house built for his son. Valentine and his sons had erected it; and Joseph, who became master-builder about this time, spoke the customary poem or oration.
The whole village had assembled before the building: the master and the journeymen were on the summit, engaged in fastening the crown of a young fir, hung with ribbons of all colors, to the peak of the gable. All were on the alert for Joseph's first performance. After a simple salutation, he began:--