She attended conventions where large companies of ministers were in session, and eagerly looked them over, hoping and praying that her eyes might fall on that one that her heart asked for. It was growing exciting and absorbing, this strange search. She frequently visited towns where a popular preacher or lecturer was announced, and made one of the vast throng that passed about him; then, taking a favourable position, rapidly scanned the upturned faces, wondering, meanwhile, what that strange, subtle something is, by which we recognise each other; that unerring consciousness, so that among ten thousand faces, could we view them one by one, we know at a glance that the one we seek is not there; we do not stop, and doubt, and compare—we know.
She humbled herself to the very dust, and wrote letters far and near to his ministerial friends, that brought only sorrowful replies. And now there came a remembrance that he had often spoken of the far west as a wide and promising field for labour; that some time he should like to go there and build up a church. He might have gone there now. So, with this forlorn hope, she started westward; spending the summer journeying, stopping over the Sabbath at straggling villages, and visiting different churches. Wearied out at length, she recalled the fact that an uncle had removed, with his family, to the south-west, several years before.
She searched out their whereabouts and hastened thither, intending to spend but a brief season. But yielding to their entreaties she remained through the autumn. It was now drawing near to Christmas, and still she lingered. She was growing hopeless, and that pleasant home filled with boys and girls was a diversion from her grief.
"Do, cousin Vida, go with me to-day, won't you?" asked Harry, a bright boy of fourteen. "I know a splendid place about ten miles from here, where we can get some evergreens; I want to trim up the house for Christmas just as we used to in New York State. I'll take the spring waggon and the ponies, and we'll go—you and I—all alone, and bring home lots of greens, all cut off in short branches."
"You forget," his mother said, "that your cousin is not used to riding in spring waggons over rough roads, and ten miles will be a long drive for her."
"There are some red berries there, too," went on Harry, as if he had not heard the objections, "and moss, and long vines that the frost hasn't found yet; besides it's a grand day to ride."
"You dear boy," said Vida, "I'll go for half of the inducements you offer." She was only too glad to fall in with any plan that diverted her sad thoughts.
The drive lay for a long distance through the lovely open country, the grass in many parts still green as in midsummer, and over all the perpetual sunshine of that region. A soft golden light that even in mid-winter glorifies the commonest object; bright skies, balmy air, and her lively companion, cheered even Vida's drooping spirits.
Arrived in the woods, Harry ran here and there with joyful enthusiasm, now climbing a tree like a squirrel, then darting into a thicket for mosses. They loaded the waggon with green boughs and filled their basket with treasures of moss and lichens, and the gay-plumed birds flitted about with hospitable little chirps, welcoming their visitors to their bowers of green. As each became more intent in adding to their store they became separated. Vida was a little distance behind a low, thick growth of trees, disentangling a long vine of bitter-sweet, when she heard a voice that thrilled her very soul. There was just one voice like that in all the world. Trembling, she bent her head and peeped through the branches. One swift glance and she knew him—her husband.
A strong self-control prevented her from swooning or crying out in her great joy. Shaking like a leaf, yet holding firmly to a tree-trunk, she gazed into the dear face. It was paler and thinner, there were dark rings under the eyes, but the finely-curved mouth had the same calm, sweet expression that told of peace within.