“No,” he said, “No, I’ll hold on!”
And he felt then that through such holy associations his lost love might still be a star in his path, and lead him, not back to his old self, but on to something better, and even brighter. But, then, how could he tune his life to such a solemn melody as this? He longed for the joy-bells, and even the jingling tunes of his old, easy boyhood. He was so weary of his heavy heart. He knew, as Flossy could not know, why men plunged into folly, and even sin, to drown grief. He would, not do that; but he thought how incredible it would have been to Flossy that there were times when he wanted to forget Mysie—times that came oftener as the months went by. He would have walked so contentedly on the easy, unheroic meadows of every-day life, and fate, or the hand of God, had forced him on to the rocky paths of sorrow. Just at that moment he caught a glimpse of the golden gate above them.
“How many birds there are here!” he said, after a silence.
“Do you know why?” said Flossy. “Mrs Harcourt comes and feeds them here every morning and evening, because she was so fond of birds.”
“And I have never been to see her. I’ll go now,” said Arthur, rising with sudden energy.
“I came from there,” said Flossy. “This is Mrs Harcourt’s jug.”
“Well, then, let us come,” he said, without giving himself time to hesitate, and Florence took up her basket and followed him into the garden.