The Hunted Outlaw | Page 8

was a Christian, and deeply interested in the social and spiritual welfare of the heathen! When the outdoor work failed in the winter, she wound cotton upon the old-fashioned spinning-wheel, and Minnie's mother often hung upon the revolving spool with a fearful interest. Mother and child were often hungry. The finish of the cotton at a certain hour of the day meant a small pittance wherewith bread could be bought. A minute after the office hour, and to the pleading request that the goods be taken and the wages given, a brutal "No" would be returned, and the door slammed in the face of the applicant. This was frequently the experience of the poor woman and her child.
At least death is merciful. It said to the widow--"Come, end the struggle. Close your eyes, and I will put you to sleep."
Minnie's mother was adopted by a lady who subsequently took up her residence in Scotland, and a modest ray of sunshine thence continued to rest upon her life: but her early sufferings had left their mark.
Of her mother's life Minnie knew but little. What she perceived was that she needed all her love and care, and these she offered in abundant measure.
CHAPTER XIII.
A LETTER FROM DONALD.
Minnie is in her little bedroom, and she is looking, with a shy surprise mixed with just a little guilt (which is sometimes so delicious), at her blushes in the glass. In her hand was a letter. That letter was from Donald. It had been handed to her at the breakfast table, and she had hastened to her room to have the luxury of secret perusal. With love there are only two beings in the entire universe. You say love is selfish. You are mistaken. Love loves secrecy. A blabbing tongue, the common look of day, kills love. The monopoly that love claims is the law of its being. If I transcribed Donald's letter you would say it was a very commonplace production. But Minnie kissed it twice, and put it softly in her bosom. The letter announced that he was home again, and that he would shortly pay her a visit. It just hinted that things were not going on well at home; but Minnie's sanguine temperament found no sinister suggestion in the words.
The letter had made her happy. She put on her hat, and, taking the path at the back of the house that joined that which led to the mountain, she was soon climbing to the latter's summit.
It was a beautiful spring day. The sunlight seemed new, and young, and very tender. The green of the trees was of that vivid hue which expresses hope to the young, and sadness to the aged. To the former it means a coming depth and maturity of joy; to the latter, the fresh, eager days of the past--bright, indeed, but mournful in their brevity.
Minnie sat down upon a rustic seat, and gave herself up to one of those delicious day-dreams which lure the spirit as the mirage lures the traveller.
She began to sing softly to herself--
"Thou'lt break my heart thou warbling bird, That wantons through the flowering thorn; Thou 'minds me o' departed joys, Departed--never to return."
Why those lines were suggested, and why her voice should falter in sadness, and why tears should spring to her eyes, she did not know. To some spirits the calm beauty of nature, and the warm air that breathes in balm and healing, express the deepest pathos. The contrast between the passion and suffering of life, and the calm assurance of unruffled joy which nature suggests, pierces the heart with an exquisite sadness.
Poor Minnie, she sang the lines of "Bonnie, Doon," all unconscious that they would ever have any relation to her experience.
But Minnie would bear her grief, and say, "God is love."
She had never subscribed to a creed, and although Mill and Huxley were strangers to her, her whole nature protested against any system of which violence was one of the factors.
Minnie was simply good. When she encountered suffering, and found that it was too great for human relief, she would whisper to her heart, "By and by." What by and by meant explained all to Minnie.
We spend years upon the study of character, and the cardinal features often escape us. A dog has but to glance once into a human face. He comprehends goodness in a moment. The ownerless dogs of the village analyzed Minnie's nature, and found it satisfactory. They beamed upon her with looks of wistful love. She had them in the spring and summer for her daily escort to the mountain.
That was a testimonial of fine ethical value.
"Why, what am I dreaming about?" Minnie exclaimed, after she had sat for about an hour. "Why are my eyes wet? Why do I feel a sadness which