“My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God, my Saviour.” He translated to himself the sonorous Latin hymn; it was as if Bess Lukens spoke it to him, instead of singing it with the other voices in the choir and congregation. It breathed of hope, of gladness, of peace, of a willingness to suffer, of joy in doing rightly, of all that the human soul should feel which lives not for itself, but for something higher. No one need pity Bess Lukens, a woman so strong, so tender, so truly humble in heart, who, beginning with all the burdens that could drag a woman downward, had yet contrived to uplift herself,—soul, mind, heart,—and would go on, becoming better herself and making others better. So thought Roger Egremont when the music died away, the priest left the altar, every human being but himself went out of the church, and he remained to think reverently and tenderly of her who had been a friend when he most needed one, and whom he had once reckoned so far beneath him that he was ashamed to own that he knew her, and now he justly counted so far, so far above him!
Next morning, at sunrise, Roger Egremont and Michelle were married in the old chapel. There was but a handful of persons present; the King and Queen, as became the master and mistress of faithful servants, Berwick, the Duchess de Beaumanoir, and François,—not a dozen in all. When the benediction had been pronounced, and Roger Egremont and his wife walked out of the chapel, the sun was just blazing over the tree-tops in the forest; the gorgeous pennons of the day were advancing over all the earth. A delicate silver haze lay over the low-lying meadows through which the river flowed mysteriously, sometimes showing itself, and then veiling itself in misty splendor. The shrill, sweet song of birds rang softly from those fair meadows; it was far away, and the echoes were faint, as if they came from elfland. One happy bird, cutting the blue air with joyous wing, burst into a rapture of song, and rose far, far, far into the eastern sky, until it seemed to be singing at the very gates of the morning. A wind from heaven blew over the green earth. It was the spring.
Other Books by MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL
THE HISTORY of the
LADY BETTY STAIR
Illustrated by THULE DE THULSTRUP
In an original binding similar to “The
Sprightly Romance of Marsac.” 12mo. $1.25
Instinct with an atmosphere of delicate feeling such as few historical romances possess.—The Bookman.
A romance in which the author takes her history with a light heart and weaves it into her text with seeming carelessness, but the last effect is one of truth and animation. The style is spirited, the tone of the book gently and truly romantic.—New York Tribune.
An altogether charming and artistically told story.—The Outlook.