"It is the soul that sees and hears. Beauty and music are created quickly if the heart be joyful. So my book says, and it is true. You have had no cause to think that bell a hideous thing."
"Yet I have suffered youth's severest loss. I have lost a mother."
"You speak the truth. Yes, I have a kind father left me—and you"—
"I am an orphan, friendless and deserted. God grant, Miss Fairman, you may be spared my fate for years."
"Not friendless or deserted either, Mr Stukely," answered the young lady kindly; "papa does not deserve, I am sure, that you should speak so harshly."
"Pardon me, Miss Fairman. I did not mean to say that. He has been most generous to me—kinder than I deserve. But I have borne much, and still must bear. The fatherless and motherless is in the world alone. He needs no greater punishment."
"You must not talk so. Papa will, I am sure, be a father to you, as he is to all who need one. You do not know him, Mr Stukely. His heart is overflowing with tenderness and charity. You cannot judge him by his manner. He has had his share of sorrow and misfortune; and death has been at his door oftener than once. Friends have been unfaithful and men have been ungrateful; but trial and suffering have not hardened him. You have seen him amongst the poor, but you have not seen him as I have; nor have I beheld him as his Maker has, in the secret workings of his spirit, which is pure and good, believe me. He has received injury like a child, and dealt mercy and love with the liberality of an angel. Trust my father, Mr Stukely."—
The maiden spoke quickly and passionately, and her neck and face crimsoned with animation. I quivered, for her tones communicated fire—but my line of conduct was marked, and it shone clear in spite of the clouds of emotion which strove to envelope and conceal it—as they did too soon.
"I would trust him, Miss Fairman, and I do," I answered with a faltering tongue. "I appreciate his character and I revere him. I could have made my home with him. I prayed that I might do so. Heaven seemed to have directed my steps to this blissful spot, and to have pointed out at length a resting place for my tired feet. I have been most happy here—too happy—I have proved ungrateful, and I know how rashly I have forfeited this and every thing. I cannot live here. This is no home for me. I will go into the world again—cast myself upon it—do any thing. I could be a labourer on the highways, and be contented if I could see that I had done my duty, and behaved with honour. Believe me, Miss Fairman, I have not deliberately indulged—I have struggled, fought, and battled, till my brain has tottered. I am wretched and forlorn—but I will leave you—to-morrow—would that I had never come——." I could say no more. My full heart spoke its agony in tears.
"What has occurred? What afflicts you? You alarm me, Mr Stukely."