As he sprang up his wondering eyes rested upon a new-blown Rose growing near. The dainty folded petals had uncurled and opened out until its golden heart was centered in tinted light. Its fragrance filled the air with a subtle tenderness. It was beautiful!
He had not failed to gather flowers, too, in his time—conventional hot-house blooms and gorgeous tropical beauties, and some with cold, odorless petals—how many had drifted through his hands. Never was there one among them all like this. Standing out against the guardian green leaves like a beloved queen, it shed a royal circle of uplifting peacefulness over everything.
Softly he knelt before this symbol of purity and loveliness with its message from the source of light and sweetness. The soul of the Rose was glowing upon him with tender beauty and glad fearlessness. His own soul stirred into life and looked out of eyes all too sadly strange to their indwelling guest. The littleness and folly of the past were but faded pictures of half-forgotten dreams. He knew that this was the awakening; this was the steady, noble, tender glow of real life.
His heart dilated with a sense of all that life might mean: its dignity, its love, its aspiration, its unspeakable destiny. Oh, but he would struggle to keep alive this enlarged and transfigured sense of things! His rapt gaze rested on the Rose until the mystery of color and light and sweetness entered into his very heart. He felt himself a part of the brightness that lives at the center of all things, and his confident soul swept out to the unseen stars to claim its own. Beyond and beyond, throughout distant space, everywhere was a flush of light and beauty and a radiant heart of peace.
Then came a memory—a mere shadow from his dream-life—and a selfish doubt brought him back to earth again. The Rose still smiled upon him in sweet faith. He would never leave it, but together they would live the larger life. As the wind whispered in the leaves the Rose bent and brushed his cheek and a swift wave of tenderness surged over him.
What if someone else should find this flower and should rise upon its power as he had risen? What if he should lose it? A hungry look stole into his eyes and his old self in a misery of longing cried hoarsely, "Never! It shall be mine, mine, only mine!" He leaned forward until the petals quivered beneath his breath. What if it should turn from him? "It is mine, mine," cried the selfish self as with eager, passionate grasp he kissed it and crushed it close, close, until he grew faint and sick with the spent sweetness.
He is stung with pain. Ah, the thorns, the thorns! Impatiently he tries to pick them out, but the sting remains. And oh! the pitiful Rose that he holds—so crushed and weary and broken! Gone is the delicate fire of the higher life that breathed through every curve of its free-born petals. And the fragrance which had radiated waves of tender gladness falls like the faltering breath of some beautiful, wounded, dying thing.
* * * * *
In the dim light which fills the mind in sleep, a mountain scene took form upon the moving screen. Up the steep side a Hunter toiled, burdened with weapons and game. In his strangely familiar eyes was a weary, dissatisfied look. The trail he had followed grew indistinct and was lost; but as he pushed onward he reached a place where the rough mountain side stretched out into a broken level of fertile plateau. How grateful it looked after the steep climb. This was the place to rest, he thought, catching sight of a tiny, sheltered lake and turning his steps toward it. Even now he can see its unruffled surface reflecting the blue sky and a drowsy chorus of encircling pines.
On the lake-shore the Hunter stood spell-bound with the beauty of the scene. The spoils of the chase and the weapons dropped from relaxed fingers as with uncovered head he drank deeply of rest and comfort and inspiration.