Oh, no! not yet—not now—not ever could that be.
"I hold it true, what'er betide,
I feel it when I sorrow most,
'Tis better to have lov'd and lost
Than never to have loved at all."
This, rather we assume, was the language of that faithful heart, still clinging too tenderly to the intense happiness of the past, to grudge the anguish of its bewildering reverse.
Clouds had arisen to obscure the heaven of her certain happiness—her once full hope had been deferred, but the day of despondency or of sickening weariness had not yet arrived.
Her lover's explanatory interview with her brother had effectually cleared, from her all believing mind, many a vague dread and anxious misgiving, which at one time were beginning to disturb her spirit; and again she could set herself to wait patiently, buoyed up by her all enduring love—her steadfast entire trust. But this hope, and trust, beautiful in themselves, could they be set alone on the frail and futile creature?
"Hope in the Lord, wait patiently for Him, and he shall give thee thy heart's desire. Commit thy way unto Him, and trust in Him, and He will bring it to pass."
Surely Mary's meek obedient soul, must have drawn its greatest strength and patience from the dictates of this high and holy invocation.
There was too, something perhaps most providentially salutary and effective, in the atmosphere of the home, where at this particular moment Mary had been led to take up her abode.
Here in the example afforded by her sister Alice's adaptation, and appropriation of herself—her tastes, and her talents, to that one ultimate end of all, feelings and powers; the performance of her duty, in that state of life which had been assigned to her—Mary's gentle mind, too prone perhaps, by nature to rest in passive enjoyment, and in the barren luxury of emotions, might receive a lesson, strengthening and benificial for its future need.
"That life is not all poetry
To gentle measures set,"