It was evening. Mildred was alone in the parlor, all the rest of the family having gone to a concert. They had urged her to go too, but she had declined, saying she greatly preferred a quiet evening at home. Truth to tell she was oppressed with sadness, and wanted to be alone that she might indulge it for a little without restraint.
All day she had maintained a cheerfulness in the presence of others which she did not feel, for there had been scarce a moment when her lost love was absent from her thoughts. Why was it that her heart went out toward him to-night with such yearning tenderness—such unutterable longing to look into his eyes, to hear the sound of his voice, to feel the touch of his hand?
She tried in vain to read; the image of the lost one constantly obtruded itself between her mental vision and the printed page.
She rose and paced the floor, not weeping, but pressing her hand to her heart with heavy sighing.
The curtains were not closely drawn, or the shutters closed; a lamp burned brightly on the centre-table, and the room was full of warmth and cheer.
She did not hear the opening or shutting of the gate, or a quick, manly step that came up the gravel walk and into the porch; did not see the stranger pause before the bright window and gaze in, half-unconsciously, as if spell-bound by the sight of her graceful figure and fair though sad face. She turned to the open piano, struck a few chords, then seated herself and sang in clear, sweet tones, but with touching pathos:
"When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?"
Then with a sudden change of feeling, she touched the chords anew and burst into a song of praise, her voice swelling out full and high like the glad song of a bird:
"Oh, the height of Jesus' love!
Higher than the heavens above,
Deeper than the depths of sea,
Lasting as eternity;
Love that found me—wondrous thought!
Found me when I sought him not."