“‘You were willing to give your own life for hers,’ said the angel to the young King, ‘and that was love. You were willing to give her up to God, and that was greater love to a greater being. Thou hast been weighed in the balance and not found wanting. Return and carry in thy bosom the milk-white dove, and never let it flee from thy dwelling.’
“The angel went up into Heaven—the young King and Queen returned to their palace, where they had a long, happy, and godly reign.”
The logs in the chimney had burned down to a bed of mingled scarlet and jet, that threw out a still more intense heat, and the sun had rolled down the west, leaving a bed of scarlet behind it, while Miss Thusa related the history of the young Prince of the East.
Helen, in the intensity of her interest, had forgotten the gliding hours, and wondered where the day had flown.
“I think if you related me such stories, Miss Thusa, every day,” said the young doctor, “I should be a wiser and better man. I shall not forget this soon.”
“I do not believe I shall tell another story as long as I live,” replied she, shaking her head oracularly. “I had to exert myself powerfully to remember and put that together as I wanted to. Well, well—all the gifts of God are only loans after all, and He has a right to take them away whenever He chooses. We mustn’t murmur and complain about it.”
“Dear Miss Thusa, this is the best story you ever told,” cried Helen, while she muffled herself for her cold, evening walk. “There is something so touching in its close—and the moral sinks deep in the heart. No, no; I hope to hear a hundred more at least, like this. I am glad you have given up ghosts for angels.”
The wind blew in strong, wintry gusts, as they passed through the leafless woods. Helen shivered with cold, in spite of the warm garments that sheltered her. The scarlet of the horizon had faded into a chill, darkening gray, and as they moved through the shadows, they were scarcely distinguishable themselves from the trees whose dry branches creaked above their heads. Arthur folded his cloak around Helen to protect her from the inclemency of the air, and the warmth of summer stole into her heart. They talked of Miss Thusa, of the story she had told, of its interest and its moral, and Arthur said he would be willing to make a pilgrimage to Mecca, over burning coals, for such a heart as the maiden offered to the young Prince. That very heart was throbbing close, very close to his, but its deep emotions found no utterance through the lips. Helen remarked that she would willingly travel with bleeding feet from end to end of the universe, for the beautiful white dove, which was the emblem of God’s holy spirit.
“Helen, that dove is nestling in your bosom already,” cried Arthur Hazleton; “but the heart I sigh for, will it indeed ever be mine?”
Helen could not answer, for she dared not interpret the words which, though addressed to herself, might have reference to another. With the humility and self-depreciation usually the accompaniment of deep reverence and devotion, she could not believe it possible that one so exalted in intellect, so noble in character, so beloved and honored by all who knew him, so much older than herself; one, too, who knew all her weaknesses and faults, could ever look upon her otherwise than with brotherly kindness and regard. Then she contrasted his manner with that of Clinton, for his were the only love-words that ever were breathed into her ear, and she was sure that if Clinton’s was the language of love, Arthur’s was that of friendship only. Perhaps her silence chilled, it certainly hushed the expression of his thoughts, for he spoke not till they reached the threshold of her home. The bright light gleaming through the blinds, showed them how dark it had grown abroad since they left Miss Thusa’s cottage. Helen was conscious then how very slowly they must have walked.