Who has not felt, when the opening year is returning to its activity, and when sober autumn, and hoary winter, have given place to their young sister spring, who hastens to sow her seeds, and send forth the buds which are to furnish summer blossoms and fruits, and the harvest time of plenty and rejoicing—a sensation he scarce can comprehend—urging him to activity.
Who is so sluggish as never to have heard an echo in his own bosom, warning him to be up and doing a something, it signifies not what, if good or prudent, in preparation for coming years—to cast off the sloth which has fallen upon him, and, like the budding year, to begin life afresh.
Spring and autumn, summer and winter, flit over our heads, and as they pass to their grave, in the bosom of eternity, leave us their warning; and, though the lesson is too often unheeded, we cannot think but that it will come to all.
As Lucy sat there, the bells from a distant church began to ring, and, sometimes, bursting on her ear, at others, retiring, as if they would lead her fancy with them far, far away, added still deeper emphasis to her thoughts; but she was presently disturbed from them, by the sudden entrance of Captain Clair, who apologised for breaking in upon her solitude, by saying, that Mr. Villars had requested him to find a book there for him.
"And where is papa, then?" said Lucy; "I have been waiting here so long for him."
"He has been walking up and down Pulteney Street with me," said Clair; "and we were talking of something which he wishes to find in this book."
Though he laid his hand upon the volume, with little difficulty, he still lingered. But Lucy said nothing to tempt him to remain.
"Why do you always so carefully avoid me?" he said, at length.
"Because you are like an evil conscience, always bringing up hard things."