The Hunted Outlaw | Page 8

that last day.
Donald occupied the chief place in her thoughts. He was far away.
Should they ever meet again? Should their sweet companionships ever
be renewed?
The cares of her new home won her back to content.
Minnie's mother was feeble, and required careful nursing. Her own
early life had been darkened by hardships. When a young girl she had
often gone supperless to bed. Her bare feet and legs were bitten by the
cutting winds of winter. Her people had belonged to the North of
Ireland. She herself was born in the south of Antrim. Her mother was
early left a widow, without means of support. She worked in the fields
for fourpence a day, from six to six, and out of this she had to pay a
shilling a week for rent, and buy food and clothing for herself and
orphan child. Her employer 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