"This is a miserable world," said one; "the black shroud of sorrow overhangs everything here."
"Not so," replied the other; "Sorrow is not a shroud. It is only the covering Hope wraps about her when she sleeps."
Just then they entered an oak-grove. It was early spring, and the trees were bare, but last year's leaves lay thick as snow-drifts upon the ground.
"The Liverwort grows here, one of our earliest flowers, I think," said the last speaker. "There, push away the leaves, and you will find it. How beautiful, with its delicate shades of pink, and purple, and green, lying against the bare roots of the oak-trees! But look deeper, or you will not find the flowers; they are under the dead leaves."
"Now I have learned a lesson that I shall not forget," said her friend. "This seems to me a bad world, and there is no denying that there are bad things in it. To a sweeping glance, it will sometimes seem barren and desolate; but not one buried germ of life and beauty is lost to the All-seeing Eye. I, having the weakness of human vision, must believe where I cannot see. Henceforth, when I am tempted to complainings and despair on account of the evil around me, I will say to myself, 'Look deeper, look under the dead leaves, and you will find flowers.'"
THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT.
September 15th, eight o'clock.—This morning, while I was arranging my books, Mother Genevieve came in, and brought me the basket of fruit I buy of her every Sunday. For nearly twenty years that I have lived in this quarter, I have dealt in her little fruit-shop. Perhaps I should be better served elsewhere, but Mother Genevieve has but little custom; to leave her would do her harm, and cause her unnecessary pain. It seems to me that the length of our acquaintance has made me incur a sort of tacit obligation to her; my patronage has become her property.
She has put the basket upon my table, and as I wanted her husband, who is a joiner, to add some shelves to my bookcase, she has gone down stairs again immediately to send him to me.
At first I did not notice either her looks or the sound of her voice; but now, that I recall them, it seems to me that she was not as jovial as usual. Can Mother Genevieve be in trouble about anything?