"Perhaps he wants a drink. We won't hurry him. We will let him see that we can afford to wait."
If he had not come to that conclusion from the very start, he must have believed human beings were miracles of patience and forbearance.
I could write a fine dissertation upon Kate's foolish fondness and her blind indulgence. I could show that these are the great failings of her sex, and prove how very much more rational my sex would be in like circumstances. But I find it too pleasant to be the recipient of such favors myself just now, to find fault. Wait until I do not need woman's tenderness, and then I'll abuse it famously. I will say then, that she is weak, foolish, imprudent; I will say, she kills with kindness, spoils with indulgence, and all that; but just now I will say nothing.
In one thing I think her kindness very sensible,—she uses no check-rein. I think with Sir Francis Head, that all horses are handsomer with their heads held as Nature pleases. I pity the poor creatures when I see them turning to one side and the other, to find a little relief in change of position. To restrain horses thus, who have heavy loads to pull, is the height of folly, as a waste of power.
You take no interest in these remarks, perhaps; but treasure them. If ever, Cousin Mary, you drive a dray, they will serve you.
[To be continued.]
* * * * *
THY PSYCHE.
Like a strain of wondrous music rising up in cloister dim,
Through my life's unwritten measures thou dost steal, a glorious
hymn!
All the joys of earth and heaven in the singing meet, and flow
Richer, sweeter, for the wailing of an undertone of woe.
How I linger, how I listen for each mellow note that falls,
Clear as chime of angels floating downward o'er the jasper walls!
Every night, when winds are moaning round my chamber by the sea,
Thine's the face that through the darkness latest looks with love at
me;
And I dream, ere thou departest, thou dost press thy lips to mine;—
Then I sleep as slept the Immortals after draughts of Hebe's wine!
And I clasp thee, out of slumber when the rosy day is born,
As the soul, with rapture waking, clasps the resurrection morn.