"Then I will meet you at the wharf, uncle Rolf,--at what o'clock?"
"My dear child," said he, stopping and passing his hand tenderly over her cheek, "are you fit for it to-morrow? You had better stay where you are quietly for a few days--you want rest."
"No, I will go home with you," said Fleda, "and rest there. But hadn't we better let Dinah in and bid her good bye? for I ought to be somewhere else to get ready."
Dinah was called, and a few kind words spoken, and with a more substantial remembrance, or reward, from Fleda's hand, they left her.
Fleda had the support of her uncle's arm till they came within sight of the house, and then he stood and watched her while she went the rest of the way alone.
Then he stood and watched her.
Anything more white and spirit-looking, and more spirit-like in its purity and peacefulness, surely did not walk that night. There was music in her ear, and abroad in the star-light, more ethereal than Ariel's, but she knew where it came from; it was the chimes of her heart that were ringing; and never a happier peal, nor never had the mental atmosphere been more clear for their sounding. Thankfulness,--that was the oftenest note,--swelling thankfulness for her success,--joy for herself and for the dear ones at home,--generous delight at having been the instrument of their relief,--the harmonies of pure affections, without any grating now,--the hope well grounded she thought, of improvement in her uncle and better times for them all,--a childlike peace that was at rest with itself and the world,--these were mingling and interchanging their music, and again and again in the midst of it all, faith rang the last chime in heaven.
Chapter XLIII.
As some lone bird at day's departing hour
Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower,
Forgetful though its wings are wet the while.