CHAPTER XXXVI. THE ANGELS OF LIFE AND DEATH "Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed; "Much must be borne which it is hard to bear; WHAT was the "something to tell" which Diantha sorrowed because her mother's benumbed senses could not rejoice in? Will the knowledge that a new joy was springing from the ashes of a buried hope stain one thread of the white web woven by her pure hands? Would you rather our Daisy should walk singly the path through life because in the first blush of its morning God had thrown around her the sanctity of a great sorrow? had removed the strong arm and wise heart on which she had timidly dared hope she might one day lean? If any of our readers think a quiet, trusting, self-reliant nature, like our heroine's, would be more true to the higher and purer instincts of womanhood if she closed her heart to the gently persuasive voice of love at its second coming, and rested content with the echo of that far-away dream, they may leave this page of her history unread. Many months, even years, drifted back into the eternal past after Captain Ashmead's pearl ornamented Diantha's fair hand, while she performed with cheerful earnestness and might whatever Provid: nce gave her to do, thinking the blessings of God's poor would compensate for the loss of those sweet joys and duties which sanctify and crown a woman's life. Had not the fragment of a shell spent its last fury on Horace Metcalf as he attended an ambulance filled with the wounded from the battle-field, and sent him home pale, and haggard, and suffering, Diantha might possibly have lived many years, believing that only friendship for the brave man quickened and thrilled the current of her life at the mention of his noble deeds; that only friendship lent a charm to his conversation and attentions which all others lacked. But the first sight of his worn face told her questioning heart that had the shell proved the message of death to her friend, the light of her life would have been wrapped in heavier clouds than she had yet known. Perhaps the hungry, long-waiting soul of Horace Metcalf saw help, and peace, and life in the blushing, conscious face of Diantha, whose hand his mother held as she approached his couch. Be that as it may, the prostrate man found confidence in the extremity of his need to say what, in the pride and glory of his strength, had often trembled on his tongue, and as often had been choked back, in fear lest his love should fail to awaken an answering note in the heart he coveted. "Daisy! now, indeed, I am at home, and I thank God for the sight of your dear face," were his first words after Mrs. Metcalf made an excuse to leave the room; and both his hands were stretched out in eager welcome, and in his eyes a tenderer language shone than could be written. Her father's pet name sprang spontaneously to his lips with the tide of love that could no longer be repressed, and his simple utterance of the word "Daisy" was freighted with a meaning which made further revelaticns unnecessary to the maiden. In the supreme joy and gladness of knowing she was loved by one who had shown himself so true, and nob.e, and worthy a woman's trust, she made no effort to corceal what she knew would be to him not alone rest, and solace, and healing, but inspiration and courage. So, with a stammering tongue and dyed cheeks, she simply said, 'Horace, I know now if you had not lived to come back to us, my days must have been very dark, and my work heavy and wearisome." "Shall I give that meaning to your words which my selfishness yearns to? Shall I dare hope that after five years of waiting, and trusting, and loving, God has given me the desire of my soul?" asked Horace, with an intensity that showed how much hung upon the answer. Diantha's bowed head and dropping tears were more eloquent than words could have been. "My Daisy, my precious flower!" What pride of ownership, what protective tenderness, were concentrated in that one possessive pronoun! "I am richly rewarded for years of waiting;" and the trembling hand that touched with a caress and a blessing the beautiful golden brown hair, the broken voice that so humbly thanked her for the gracious hope, brought to Diantha sweet compensation for the silence and dearth that succeeded the burial of ser first girlish love. Accepting that sorrow as a heavenly discipline, it had deepened, and purified, and developed her character, so that her second love was correspondingly stronger, more intense, complete, and self-forgetful than the first, as the ingrafted fruit is sweeter, richer, and larger than the natural growth of the tree. Walking home in the mellow light of the autumn day with a more conscious blush upon her cheeks than the maples wore, a purer radiance in her brown eyes than gleamed on the golden and amethyst clouds of the sunset, ♣ richer perfume in her heart than the breath of the ripen ing grain and purple grapes, Diantha thought only of that "something" which would at last satisfy her mother, and met on the very threshold of her new happiness the shadow of the death-angel's wings. There are many families whose unwritten history would reveal depths of pathos, tragedy, and heroism; homes where a patient, long-suffering mother watches over an infirm child, or conceals the imbecility of one who is "Lone of her bone and flesh of her flesh;" where the idol of the hearth-stone goes astray, and though his name is a forbidden sound, yet tender yearnings and agonized prayers follow him, and in the darkness and silence of night there are tears enough shed to wash the black stains of guilt from his soul, had a mother's tears vicarious power. Many wives, with an heroic sacrifice of self, conceal with tender artifice and watchful love the short-comings of men whom they have promised to honor-await in fear the uncertain step, the possible blow, and the cruel word, while no ear but God's hears the wail of the disappointed heart, and none but the Eternal Eye sees the unloosed fountain of tears. Many women live whose names are worthy of record on history's most honored page, but their acts of tenderness, courage, and devotion are so unobtrusive, so carefully shielded by the intensity and delicacy of their love, that the perfume of their heroic lives is confined to their humble homes. Very few of those who partook of Dr. Howell's hospitalities, and found strength in his counsels and inspiration, in the genial flow of his conversation, who saw the serenity of Diantha's face, and listened to the indescribable pathos and sweetness of her voice, and felt the blessing of her gentle presence, - imagined that a home where wisdom, beauty, and harmony joined hands could contain a skeleton, a thorn that sometimes pierced beneath the panoply of grace and char.ty worn by the doctor and his daughter. A few might suspect the deep rivers of peace within their souls were sometimes stirred, and that it was not an angel who had troubled the waters; but none could know what a tarbid tide had to be met beneath that roof, nor with what patience and tender love it was held in check. Diantha had need, during the winter that so darkly closed in upon that golden October day, of all the inspiration, sweetness, and strength which the knowledge of Horace Metcalf's love added to her life; dreary months of patient watching by an invalid's couch were relieved and brightened by the sympathy and devotion of her friend. The terrible blow which so suddenly revealed to Mrs. Howell the perishable nature of this world's fashions did not immediately open the gates of the Eternal and Invisible to her clouded vision. When partial consciousness returned to her benumbed senses, most mercifully the memory of Lou's letter was buried beneath the wreck. The larger part of her past life was as completely blotted from her mind as were ever the feeblest footprints in the sand washed out by the inflowing tide. Deprived of the power to move from her couch, her intellect weakened, and her temper rendered more fitful and captious than before the shock, she tested most thoroughly the forbearance and love of her husband and daughter. It was no longer asked under Dr. Howell's roof, “What shall be done with Edna?" but scarcely a day passed that some one did not exclaim, "How could we live without her?" If she had been a reed swayed by the gentlest breath while the s veet May of her life was bright with blossoms |