{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_36977/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_36977","id":"gutenberg_36977","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36977","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Fairy tales"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by Delphine Lettau, Charlene Taylor and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n                   The Village\n                     of Youth\n              And Other Fairy Tales\n\n                        BY\n\n                  BESSIE HATTON\n            _Author of \"Enid Lyle,\" etc._\n\n             With Numerous Illustrations\n                        BY\n                 _W. H. MARGETSON_\n\n                    London, 1895\n\n                   HUTCHINSON & CO\n\n                 _34 PATERNOSTER ROW_\n\n\nPrinted by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.\n\n\n\n\n                      CONTENTS.\n\n\n                                                    PAGE\n\n       I. The Village of Youth                        1\n\n      II. A Child of the Winds                       31\n\n     III. The Flower that reached the Sun-lands      72\n\n      IV. The Garden of Innocence                    96\n\n       V. A Christmas Rose                          124\n\n      VI. The Windflower                            144\n\n\n\n\n                   The Village of Youth\n\n[Illustration: The Village of Youth]\n\n  \"Yet Ah! that Spring should vanish with the Rose!\n  That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!\"\n\n\n                         I.\n\nThere was a young King who ought to have been the happiest monarch in\nthe world. He was blessed with everything a mortal could desire. His\npalace might have been designed by the Divine architect Himself, so\nperfect was it in all its parts; and it stood amidst gardens with its\ndependent village at its gates, like a dream of feudal beauty in a story\nof romance. Notwithstanding his good fortune, the King was oppressed\nwith what he conceived to be a great trouble. From the happy ruler of a\nhappy people he gradually became grave and anxious, as if an intense\nfear had taken possession of his soul; and so it had. It was the fear\nof Age. He could no longer bear to meet old people, and eventually grew\nto hate the hoary heads and time-worn faces of his venerable subjects.\nHe therefore divided his kingdom into two parts. The elders lived in one\nhalf of the realm, under the government of his mother, while he was King\nof the young. Riding, hawking, or sailing along the grey river, he never\nsaw a wrinkled visage. Hence his kingdom was called the Village of Youth.\n\nThe King was betrothed to a fair Princess named Rowena. She loved her\nfuture husband dearly, though his strange malady and the exodus of the\nold people from his dominions had clouded her happiness, and made her\nlong for some way of alleviating his suffering.\n\nWhen the lovers were together they held no gentle, tender discourse.\nUriel would only gaze at his betrothed with mournful eyes, and when she\nbesought him not to be sorrowful he would say, \"Sweet lady, how can I be\nother than I am? Each loving word that falls from thy lips, each sweet\nsmile that plays upon thy face, is as a dagger in my heart; for I\nremember how soon the bloom of youth will pass from thy cheeks and the\nsoftness from thy lips. Our village, too, will become the Village of\nEld, grim with unlovely age.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\nInterviews of this kind saddened the Princess to such an extent, that\nwhile she sat sewing among her women tears would often fall upon the\nembroidery, and she would be obliged to leave her work.\n\nAmong the many fair maidens who attended upon Rowena, the fairest of\nthem all was the Lady Beryl. She grieved sincerely to see her mistress\nso dejected, and taxed her brain night and day for some plan by which\nshe might save the Village of Youth. With this thought deep in her\nheart, she rose early one morning and rode away to seek advice from the\npeople who lived in the Village of Eld. It was spring; the grass was\ngreen, the sky was blue. The sunshine gleamed on the maiden's hair and\non her dove-coloured garments.\n\nAs she rode into the village the inhabitants gathered around her. She\nfound herself in the midst of a crowd of grey-headed men and women, many\nof whom touched her dress and kissed her hand, while others knelt down\nand almost worshipped her; she reminded them of their own early days, a\nsweet personification of the young spring. Beryl lifted up her voice,\nand said,--\n\n\"Dear reverend people, you all know of the sadness of our sovereign and\nof its cause; and now our dear Princess shares his sorrow. We are\nignorant and inexperienced, neither have we any wise men or women to\ncounsel us; therefore I pray you tell me, is there any way to keep our\nyouths and maidens always young, that they may never know age?\"\n\nA long wailing cry was heard from the people of the village,--\n\n\"There is no way--no way!\" One old man, who was bent and tottering,\nraised his wrinkled face to the maiden's, and said,--\n\n\"Spring gives place to summer, and summer to autumn, and autumn to\nwinter. What would you? Age is beautiful; it is a time of peace, of\nmeditation. Youth knows not rest; it is ever striving, fighting,\nsuffering. When age comes upon us we cease to enjoy as keenly as the\nyoung, but we cease to suffer as bitterly as they who are in the spring\nof life. If the scent of the air is less fresh and the voice of the\nbrook is less sweet, why, the thunder clouds are less dark and the storm\nis robbed of its fury.\"\n\nBeryl bowed her head and rode away. As she passed through the gate an\nold woman followed her, and whispered these words,--\n\n\"An hour before sunset, on the longest day of summer, Time, in his\nchariot, rides through the Village of Youth. If each year thou canst\nprevent his doing so, the world will still grow old, but the Village\nof Youth will remain young for ever.\"\n\n\"Alas, good dame, how can I hope to succeed in this endeavour?\"\n\n\"Sweet maiden, thou art beautiful, thou art in the April of life. Time\nis gentle and pitiful; throw thyself before his chariot. Thou wilt stay\nhis flying feet, and thy sovereign will bless thee.\"\n\nBeryl returned, pondering over the woman's words. She entered that\nportion of the palace occupied by the Princess and her suite, and\nproceeded to her own chamber.\n\nThe hangings were of white silk, and the floor was of ivory. Silver\nvases, filled with purple lilacs, perfumed the air. Presently three\nmaidens entered, to attire their mistress for the evening banquet. One\nbathed her face and hands with spring-water, another combed her hair\nwith a silver comb, and the third robed her in a gown of soft silk,\nedged with pearls.\n\nBeryl's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled with excitement, as\nshe hastened along the corridor to the apartments of the Princess. Her\nroyal mistress was seated in the portico which looked on to the palace\ngardens. Never had Beryl seen the future Queen so sad. Forgetting her\nnews in her anxiety, she threw herself at Rowena's feet, and besought\nher to say what ailed her.\n\n\"It is the old trouble that afflicts me, dear child. The King grows\nworse, and I fear that if he cannot conquer his melancholy he will go\nmad.\"\n\nThen Beryl, in hurried words, told Rowena of her visit to the Village\nof Eld, and of the woman's message.\n\nThe Princess became deeply interested in the recital, and as her\nhandmaiden unfolded her plan of waiting for Time on the longest day of\nsummer, she gradually caught her excitement.\n\n\"Young for ever,\" she murmured, with a sigh, \"young for ever in a summer\nworld! It is too good to be true, Beryl; besides, if it were not, how\ncould I let thee depart upon such a quest? Better far that I should go\nmyself.\"\n\n\"Nay, sweet lady; thou art espoused to our lord, the King, but I have no\nlover who would grieve for me. Besides, I can but fail; and so thou wilt\npity my unsuccess, I shall be content.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe air was filled with the scent of spring flowers, and of the many\nroses which had clambered over the portico. Beryl sat at the Princess'\nfeet, and lifted up a pair of beseeching eyes to her face. At that\nmoment the young King entered. He was made acquainted with the question\nin dispute. On hearing of Beryl's plan a joyful expression lighted up\nhis sad features, and at his earnest entreaty Rowena gave her consent\nto the undertaking.\n\n\n                            II.\n\nSummer had laid her hands upon the land, broadening with vigorous\nstrokes the delicate colours of the faded spring. Fields of corn and\nbarley were ripening, and far away on the uplands crimson poppies lay\nsleeping in the sunlight.\n\nBeryl waited outside the village on the longest day of the year. In\nwhite robes and silken cap she watched for the passing of Time. Before\nthe day began to wane a chariot, drawn by the Winds, dashed along the\nroad which led to the Village of Youth. The maiden, though half dead\nwith terror, flung herself down before the gates with a loud cry. She\nfelt herself raised from the ground, and on opening her eyes found that\nshe was in the arms of a ragged youth. His face was beautiful beyond all\ndescription, though its expression was full of sorrow; his garments were\nsmirched with mud and hung in tatters, but they were jewelled from\nshoulder to hem with diamonds, whiter and more brilliant than any she\nhad ever seen. Awed and wondering, Beryl laid her finger softly upon\none of the gems. But it dissolved and vanished at her touch; and she\nrealised that Time's garments were jewelled with the world's tears.\n\nPresently the youth addressed her, and his voice was the saddest of all\nthe music that she had ever heard,--\n\n\"Maiden, what wouldst thou with me?\"\n\n\"Good sir, I pray thee to spare the Village of Youth. Let its young days\nlast for ever.\"\n\n\"For ever!\" he sighed. \"What spell is there in this 'for ever' that\nmortals must always crave after it? I am the spirit of Time, the king of\nchange. The Winds are my servants. My palace is built on the shores of\nEternity; and yet, for one hour passed in the Village of Youth, or for\nknowledge of the peace which reigns in the Village of Eld, I would lay\ndown my immortality without a pang. In my flight through the world I see\nlittle joy. I ring the bells of birth, of marriage, and of death. Upon\nmy garments the tears of humanity gather fast. Still, my task is not all\nunhappy, in that a day comes when I have healed their wounds with my\ntouch, though scars remain, which even I, an Immortal, cannot efface.\nAlas, sweet maiden! I dare not leave the Village of Youth unvisited,\neven at the prayer of the fairest of its daughters.\"\n\nNevertheless, after many a sigh and many a tear, Beryl touched the\nchangeful heart of Time; and because she was so beautiful the youth\nloved her, and he bore her away in his chariot, leaving the Village\nof Youth unvisited.\n\nDesolate, and misty, and grey, was the country of Time, and rugged the\ncastle built on the shores of Eternity. Strange, colourless flowers\nbloomed in the garden, and the paths were heavy and wet. In the great\nhall of the palace there were tables laden with fruit and wine, and\nafter Beryl had eaten she felt refreshed. The place was lonely. There\nwas not a sigh nor a token of any living creature within its walls.\n\nSome of the sorrow seemed to pass out of the youth's face as he watched\nthe maiden. And when she looked up at him and smiled all the tears on\nhis dress melted away.\n\n\"Sweet lady,\" he presently said, \"I did unwisely to bring thee here, for\nwhen thou art gone I shall feel more lonely than ever before. Until I\nmet thee, I had never exchanged words with an earthly maid. Thy presence\ngives me much comfort; I am so weary of travel, so tired of this grim\ncountry. I must, nevertheless, leave thee at sunrise. Remain here until\nI return, and I will not pass through the Village of Youth.\"\n\nBeryl's heart leapt with gratitude. Her mission was accomplished. Then a\nsudden fear smote her. Must she remain alone in this weird place, and\nwalk continually in this garden of colourless flowers?\n\n\"Good my lord, how long wilt thou be gone?\" she tremblingly inquired.\n\n\"A year, though it will seem but as a day to thee, for here time counts\nnot; this is his resting-place. In his palace there is no change; it is\nbuilt on the everlasting shore.\"\n\nAs the youth finished speaking Beryl observed that the hall was full of\nweird shades, in jewelled cloaks of tears; but amongst them there was\none whose garments were of shining white, gemmed with violets.\n\n\"These,\" said Time, \"are the hours of to-day.\"\n\nThe shades flitted past, bending before their King. Beryl noticed that\nthe sadness in their faces was akin to that of Time, with one exception.\nHe of the white garments wore an expression that was smiling and happy,\nand the violets on his dress filled the hall with perfume.\n\n\"Good my lord, why doth this last shadow look so different from all the\nrest?\" asked Beryl.\n\nAt a sign from Time the shadow spoke,--\n\n\"I am the death-hour of a great poet. He died happily, having enriched\nthe world with his song. The moon kissed his lips as he breathed his\nlast in my arms.\"\n\n\"Whither are they going?\" asked Beryl, as the hours floated through the\nhall.\n\n\"I will show thee,\" said the youth, leading her into the open.\n\nThe air was keen. In the distance, Beryl could hear the sound of the\nsea. Heavy clouds of mist hung around the castle. The maiden stooped to\npluck one of the colourless flowers that bloomed in the garden. To her\nsurprise, she could not break its stalk. She hurried after the youth,\nwho was standing on a jutting piece of rock, some paces away.\n\n\"Look,\" he said, \"yonder, to westward.\"\n\nThe maiden saw the winged hours floating over the sea. Far away she\nbeheld a dim coast-line of a distant country. The sky on that far shore\nwas a mass of rosy clouds, rosier still to Beryl's eyes, accustomed as\nshe had become to the greyness and mist of the country of Time.\n\n\"The sea which lies beneath us is the sea of Eternity, and yonder land\nis the Garden of the Past. The sun always shines there; the past forges\nits own halo.\"\n\nBeryl watched in silence the flying shadows floating over the Eternal\nSea. The hours of her earliest days were there, in that Garden of the\nPast. If she went thither, should she find them, and with them the\nplaymates and the innocence of childhood?\n\nTime noticed the sorrowful expression of her face, and pitied her.\n\n\"Maiden,\" he said, \"thou must not look backwards. Let the aged dream of\nthe days that are gone; thy future is before thee. It waits for thee,\nyonder behind the sun that is rising on the world. Wilt thou go with me\nand give up thy wish, content to let the Village of Youth grow old, as\nis the fate of all things mortal? Thou wilt be happier in thine own\ncountry. Far away, in its valleys, the flowers and the summer call for\nthee. Come.\"\n\nHe stepped into his chariot, and held out his arms towards her.\n\n\"Nay, good my lord; I will await thee here, and try to forget the\nflowers and the summer, remembering only thee and thy promise.\"\n\nThe youth waved his hand in token of adieu, and vanished from her sight.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAfter her companion's departure she roamed about the garden. That\nportion of it which surrounded the palace was bare and treeless, but in\nthe distance she could see forests of white poplars. She found some\ngrey poppies in the garden not unlike those that bloomed in the Village\nof Youth, excepting that these of the country of Time had thick pulpy\nstems, resembling the water-lily. A straggling plant attracted her\nnotice; it looked like hemlock, only that the flower was of a deep\npurple. Lifting her face from the gloom of the floral beds, her eyes\nrested on the Garden of the Past. The wish to explore it, and to find in\nits green mazes her early days once more, was irresistible.\n\nTrembling with excitement, she sought for a path that should lead her to\nthe seashore. With much difficulty, she succeeded in clambering down the\nsteep descent. Upon the strand she found a tiny boat, with quaint\npaddles, in which she made for the shining coast. The skiff progressed\nrapidly. As it neared the land, Beryl noticed a great change in the\natmosphere. The cold and mist of the country of Time were left behind\nher. Resting upon her oars, she cooled her hands in the sea. To her\nastonishment, she discovered that the water was not salt; it tasted as\nfresh and as pure as the crystal stream that flowed through the Village\nof Youth. Great as was her desire to enter the wonderful garden that lay\nstretched before her, she almost regretted this last adventure. The heat\nbecame intense. There was no longer a ripple on the sea. Everything lay\ndead still. When close in shore, all suddenly she could make no further\nprogress; the more she plied her paddles, the further she drifted\nbackwards. At length exhausted, she lost consciousness.\n\nOn recovering Beryl was surprised to find herself in the misty garden\nagain, Time bending over her with a pitying expression on his face.\n\n\"Thou shouldst not have gone to seek the Garden of the Past; even I\ncannot gain access to its groves,\" he said, when she had revived.\n\n\"I am grieved, and wish I had not ventured thither.\"\n\nTouched by her sorrowful contrition, the youth held up a bunch of faded\nred poppies and said soothingly,--\n\n\"I thought of thee as I passed by the Village of Youth.\"\n\n\"Tell me, my dear lord, why is it that the sea washing the shores of the\nGarden of the Past is not salt, but fresh as a mountain spring?\" said\nBeryl, taking the dead flowers and holding them tenderly in her hand.\n\n\"All bitterness is purged from the Past, my child; therefore the waters\nthat wash its shores are sweet.\"\n\n\n                         III.\n\nSo years and years fled by, but there was no change in the Village of\nYouth. It was always summer and always daylight. In the success of\nBeryl's scheme the King found the dearest wish of his heart gratified.\nHis face regained its former beauty, and his manner its old charm. But\nat length, although he would not breathe the fact aloud, the unending\nseason began to pall upon him.\n\nAlways summer and always daylight! His wedding-day would never come, for\nthe present time would never pass. At length the sun grew hateful to\nhim. He longed for night, and he gazed with agony upon the face of his\never-youthful love. When he walked through the gardens he prayed that\nthe flowers might wither. He was weary of seeing them always the same,\nshedding the same scent on the air, never less, never more. The lark\nsoaring upwards sang the same song of liberty and hope all through the\nunending day. No change in the Village of Youth, young for ever.\n\nThe Princess, however, felt differently. A maiden wants so little to\nmake her happy. The eternal day was not long to her; her King was with\nher through its everlasting hours, and summer would never leave them and\ntheir love would never die. Had she only known whether Beryl was safe,\nher mind would have been quite at rest.\n\nMeeting her Lord one day in the palace gardens, she read the agony in\nhis face; and after listening to his plaints, she gently, though\nfearlessly, reprimanded him.\n\n\"Methinks, dear love, that we shall all be punished yet for thy\ndiscontent. Thou art placed upon the throne of a great kingdom as its\nsovereign. Thy subjects are true and loyal. Thy betrothed, as is well\nknown, is neither clever enough nor good enough to fill the high post\nfor which thou hast selected her; but she loves thee, and would lay down\nher life for thee without regret. She sends her favourite maiden on a\nquest which is fraught with much danger; on the accomplishment of that\nmission thy happiness depends. It succeeds; but the royal attendant does\nnot return. Time visits the Village of Youth no more; and yet thou\ndwellest in its vernal freshness, ill-content.\"\n\n\"Thou hast good cause to reproach me, dear one, erring only when thou\ndost affirm that she whom I love is not worthy to be my Queen. Were I\nbut fit to tie her sandal or kiss the hem of her robe, I were glad\nindeed.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\nHe took her in his arms and pressed her to his heart, while the hot sun\nbeat down upon the weary village.\n\nIt was thus that Beryl returned to her sovereign's kingdom, on the same\nday and at the same hour she had left it, though the world was older by\nforty years. She walked through the streets, a bent, grey-haired woman.\nEverywhere smiling youth met her gaze. Little children had remained\nlittle. They gathered round her, pulling at her dress, and gazing\nwonderingly into her lined and worn face.\n\n\"Where art thou going, good dame?\" a girl inquired.\n\n\"To the palace. I wish to see the King.\"\n\n\"In good sooth, they will never admit thee into the palace; and did his\nmajesty know that thou wert in the village he would have thee conducted\nthence.\"\n\n\"Ah, maiden! I know of his folly, which will be punished yet, rest\nassured. I was once a girl like thee, had hair like thine, and smooth\nwhite skin.\"\n\n\"That must have been a long time ago.\"\n\n\"It seems but as yesterday,\" said Beryl.\n\nShe dragged her tired limbs to the palace gates, and stood there, bent\nand tottering. The guard who kept the door refused her admittance,\nsaying that his master would not allow the aged within the precincts of\nthe village; but the King happened to overhear the argument, and at once\ngave orders to have the woman brought before him. Although she appeared\nquite unknown to him, he fell upon her neck and embraced her, so wearied\nwas he of the perpetual youth around him. But when she told them who she\nwas, and her story, they greatly marvelled.\n\n\"Why didst thou leave the Palace of Time, dear Beryl?\" asked Rowena.\n\n\"Sweet Princess, I learned to love the Spirit, forgetting how great, how\ngodlike he was. And little understanding the difference between us, I\ngrew unhappy because he never embraced me. What would you? I was but a\nwoman, still chained to earth, though the companion of an Immortal in\nthe courts of Eternity. I grew to believe that he did not love me; and\nhe, seeing sorrow in my face, thought that I longed to go back to the\nworld. I gave him my love, which was all I had of spiritual to give, and\nhe was happy; but I lived within his home ill-content. One night, when\nhe returned from his yearly circle, I threw my arms around him and\nkissed him. All the palace shook, and he looked at me with strange,\nwistful eyes. I felt tired and weak; and I remember nothing more until I\nawoke, as from a long dream, and found that I was lying on the banks of\nthe stream yonder. I arose and washed in the river, and realised that\nI was bent, and grey. Then I knew that the fault had been mine; his\nunwilling lips had given me age, and taken my youth for ever.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThey led her within the palace, and she was clothed and fed. Rowena\nlooked at her, and marvelled. In the worn, faded face she tried to trace\nsome of the beauty that had been Beryl's; but all in vain. Once they\nwere of the same years, but now Beryl was old and the Princess was in\nthe springtime of life.\n\nDuring the watches of the night the aged woman heard the wings of Time\nsweeping through the silent village. Hurrying from the palace, she\nstretched out her arms to him in mute entreaty.\n\nThere was a tone of sorrow in his voice as he cried, \"Too late--too\nlate; only Youth with its beacon-light of Hope can stay the flying feet\nof Time!\"\n\nMorning came in the full glory of the risen sun, but the Village of\nYouth was no more. It was as a dream that had passed. Again old age\ngossiped in the streets and sat serene at its board of council. The King\nbowed his head, and accepted his punishment with a dignified humility.\nIn the autumn of his life he found joy his youth had never known. He\nbecame wise in judgment, patient in sorrow, and was beloved by all his\nsubjects. In latter years his kingdom grew large and prosperous, and it\nwas no longer known as the Village of Youth, but was called the City of\nContent.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n                         A CHILD OF THE WIND\n\n[Illustration: A CHILD OF THE WINDS]\n\n  \"Love, like an Alpine harebell hung with tears\n  By some cold morning glacier\"\n                                            Lord Tennyson\n\n\n                                 I.\n\nWhen Sorrow was a little child and the Sea yet nursed pale Grief on her\nbreast, there lived in a distant country a great and wise King. Renowned\nfor justice, he was both loved and revered by his subjects, and if God\nhad blessed him with a child to inherit his lands he could have died\nwithout a regret. However, time passed, and it seemed that his wish was\nto remain ungratified. Being a noble and sagacious man, he reconciled\nhimself to the will of his Creator; but his Queen still hoped against\nhope. The King's time was fully occupied. Each day brought its\ndifferent tasks. There was much state business to be discussed in\ncouncil, and the administration of justice made great demands on the\nmonarch's leisure. His spouse, on the other hand, had little to do,\nexcepting to tend her flowers and to ply her needle. She took to\nbrooding and wishing impiously for what God evidently did not intend she\nshould have. Unknown to the King, she visited all the magicians in his\nrealm, and sought their help to aid her in the fulfilment of her wish;\nbut in vain.\n\nWhen very much depressed, it was the Queen's habit to wander by the sea\nand speak her thoughts aloud. One day, feeling more wretched than she\nhad ever done before, she left the palace secretly, and walked some\nmiles along the coast, unburdening her mind as she went.\n\nIt was late autumn. The approaching death of the year struck her majesty\npainfully. The ocean was a dull green under the heavy sky. She turned,\nand looked at the silver spires of the palace which lay in the distance.\n\"Ah! what a difference it would have made in our dear home,\" she said,\n\"had we been blessed with a child.\" She clasped her hands in a frenzy of\ndesire. It seemed to her agitated mind that the sea too was perturbed,\nthat its rippling waves kissed her sandalled feet lovingly. At\nlength, tired with her walk, she lay down and wept herself to sleep.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWhen she awoke it was evening. The woodlands and mountains lay in deep\nshadow.\n\nThe Queen started up, scarcely remembering where she was. When she quite\nrealised her position she drew her hooded cloak more tightly around her,\nand prepared to return home. She had scarcely made any progress, when\nsuddenly, a few feet from her, she observed in the sea a face of\nsurpassing beauty. The hair lay floating on the waves like red weed; the\neyes were as green as emeralds, with a fierce tenderness in them. The\nQueen stood transfixed with amazement, gazing at the woman's face. She\nwas uncertain what to do, whether to remain where she was, or whether to\nfly homewards along the shore. The royal lady had been reared in the\nsimplest manner; she had been taught to distrust her imagination, so she\nrubbed her eyes, expecting that when she looked again the vision would\nhave vanished. But she was mistaken; moreover, the apparition began to\naddress her in throbbing bursts of song.\n\n\"Mortal, I am here to grant thy desire. I have heard thy plaints and\ncaught thy tears, and I have sorrowed for thee and tried to soothe thy\nwoe, for I too have known bitterness and despair. I was once the love\nof the North Wind. He wooed me amidst the ice-plains, in a world of\ncrystal glaciers. He chased me through space, until we lay panting on\nthe shores of Africa. But he has left me for the South Wind, with her\ngolden hair and her hot breath. They have made their home on a\nmountain-top, where the snow-flowers bloom in profusion, where the sea\ncan never go. Four years since he came, bearing a child in his arms. He\nlaid it on my breast, saying that I was to keep it and rear it for his\nsake. That child I will give to thee. She knows nothing of her\nparentage, and it would be best that thou shouldst never tell her to\nwhom she owes her being.\"\n\n\"But when the North Wind finds that thou hast parted with thy precious\ncharge what will he do?\" panted the Queen.\n\n\"He will storm and tear and lash my waves into mountains, and moan round\ncontinent and island, and search my ocean from the North to the South\nPole. His spouse will scorch me with her breath till I am forced to dive\ndown to cool crystal caverns, where, upon a bed of seaweed, I shall\nlaugh loud and long, a conqueror.\"\n\nThe Queen held her breath in terror. She would have liked to escape from\nthe fierce Sea, whose face wore a look of wild triumph; but her anxiety\nto see the Child of the Winds overcame her fear, and she waited\npatiently, her hands clasped tightly together to quell her rising\nagitation.\n\nBy this time it was quite dark; the sky was starless, there was not a\nbreath of air. In her imagination the Queen seemed to see the Winds in\ntheir mountain home, unconscious of the peril of their daughter. The Sea\nhad disappeared, and was so long absent that the Queen began to think\nshe had been dreaming, when suddenly, by invisible hands, a child was\nplaced in her arms.\n\n\"Thou must call her Myra,\" said a voice, \"for she hath known only\nbitterness on the breast of her foster-mother.\"\n\nThe Queen looked around, but saw no one. Pressing the burden to her\nheart, she started homewards. She dared not look at the little one; but\nshe felt the tiny arms clasped confidingly round her neck, and the sweet\nmouth pressed against her cheek gave her more happiness than she had\never known.\n\nThe Sea followed her, washing the shore with phosphorescent waves to\nlight her steps homewards. The royal lady flew along with the agility of\nearly youth, and the burden in her arms was made light by love.\n\nAt length the marble steps were reached. She hurried up them and through\nthe golden gates--along winding passages and across alabaster halls,\nuntil at length, breathless and trembling with excitement, she burst\ninto the King's apartments, where she placed Myra in the arms of her\namazed and happy husband.\n\nCognisant of his just and upright nature, she did not tell him of the\nchild's parentage, knowing that he would have been the first to restore\nit to its rightful owners. She said that she had found the little\ncreature on the shore, and that fearing it would be drowned by the\nincoming tide, she had borne it to the palace, hoping that, should it be\nunclaimed, her royal lord would, in pity of her loneliness, and in\nconsideration of their desire for a daughter, allow her to keep and rear\nit as their own.\n\nLong into the night they sat, admiring the lovely waif.\n\n\"She must be royally born, my love,\" said the King. \"Washed overboard,\nperhaps, from some regal ship. Be sure she will be claimed of thee.\"\n\nSuddenly Myra awoke, and the Queen set her on her feet, that they might\nthe better observe her.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nShe was about four years old. Heavy black hair fell around her face,\nwhich was lit with wild, pale eyes. Her small seamless garment was\nembroidered with pearls and shells, and through its transparent folds\nthe little body looked like a blush rose with the dew upon it. The\nQueen, in an ecstasy of happiness, drew Myra's hands within her own\nand kissed them; her heart went out in motherly tenderness to the poor\nbabe, hitherto unkissed by mortal lips, though born of the Winds and\nrocked by the Sea. Yet, as she gazed into the child's sorrowful face, a\nstrange fear smote her, and she almost wished that she had left the\neerie creature in its salt sea home, or that she had told her husband\nthe story of its birth. Still, she could not go back now.\n\nIn the night a great storm arose. The Queen lay trembling in her\nchamber. Myra's powerful father had learned of the loss of his daughter.\nHe lashed the Sea from Pole to Pole; it thundered on the shore, and\nburst into wild shrieks of triumph. The night was long and tempestuous;\nwhole towns were destroyed, and many ships were sunk; but towards\nmorning the North Wind subsided into low wails of pain, which were\nanswered by the languorous sighs of the South, as they returned to their\nmountain home sad and desolate, while in a marble palace a Queen awoke\npressing their child to her breast. She had taken the weird sea-tossed\nthing to her heart, for weal or woe.\n\n\nII.\n\nMyra's first years in her new home were trying ones to her\nfoster-parents. Nothing in the palace seemed to please her. Not that she\never in any way testified her dislike of anybody or anything; but there\nwas a wistful look in her face, and she had a listless way of sitting\nfor hours on the floor, her elbows resting on her knees and her hands\nsupporting her chin. Asked what she thought about at these times her\nreply was an odd one, and always gave the Queen a creepy feeling. \"I am\nnot thinking; I am only seeing things,\" she would say.\n\nA spacious nursery had been built for the child's use in the grounds of\nthe palace. It had a walled-in garden of its own, in which there were\nflowers, fruit trees, soft lawns, and sparkling fountains. All the\ntoy-makers in the kingdom had been employed to furnish the nursery with\ningenious inventions. There were dolls by the hundred, tea and dinner\nservices, farmyards, woolly animals, games innumerable, everything that\nthe heart of the most petted child could desire; yet Myra took no\npleasure in them. The only playthings she appeared to care for were a\ncollection of shells, which had been gathered for her on the beach and\npierced with holes; these she would string and re-string for hours.\n\nTime passed, and Myra grew into a lovely woman. The King was exceedingly\nproud of her, and he made her heiress to his crown and estates. One\nthing alone troubled him deeply. Myra would not consent to marry any of\nthe great nobles who had frequented his court. All the high-born princes\nof his realm had wooed her in vain, and many others from distant lands\nhad failed to please her. The King had often heard of princesses who set\nso high a value on themselves that they did not think any man good\nenough for them in the light of a husband, but Myra was not proud. She\nwas of a very gentle nature, and he could not believe that she was\ncold-hearted; yet she appeared to be so, for none of her noble lovers\ncould boast the smallest word of encouragement from her sweet lips. She\nmoved through the palace, a slim, dark beauty, in her pale draperies,\nher hair half hidden beneath her jewelled head-dress, her face, though\ncalm and serene, still lit by the strange, wistful eyes which had so\nstruck the Queen on that night seventeen years ago when the Winds had\nlost their daughter.\n\nAs she grew to womanhood Myra delighted in her garden. She often sat\nthere most of the day, reading or sewing or talking with the flowers.\nIt amused the Princess to find that, from simple daisy to proud\ntiger-lily, they were all in love. With one exception.\n\nNear the wall there grew a purple Hollyhock or Rose-Mallow. The Princess\npreferred to call him by his latter name, because it seemed to her the\ngrander and also the more euphonious of the two. He, of all the flowers\nin the enclosure, was her favourite, and he alone had not yet found a\nlady upon whom to bestow his affections.\n\nMyra always attended upon the garden herself. She cut off the dead\nblossoms, raked the soil with a golden rake, and gave the plants water\nout of a golden pitcher when the heat of the sun had been oppressive.\nTherefore, she participated in all their secrets. She knew that,\nalthough the Rose-Mallow was not in love with any inmate of the garden,\nthere was an humble Violet which grew at his feet, in whose eyes he was\nthe rarest and most lovely flower in the world. It amused Myra to see\nthe Violet peep from its green leaves at the stately Mallow, and then,\nif he chanced to be looking, which, of course, was just what the Violet\nwanted, she would hide herself, in a strange tremor of excitement.\n\n\"I feel so happy, and yet so miserable, to-day,\" said the Rose-Mallow to\nthe Princess one morning. \"Last night, when all the others were asleep,\nI heard, from over the wall, a sweet voice singing a hymn to Night. I\nasked the Poplar who it was, and he said it was the Evening Primrose;\nthat there were none of her race in our garden, and that she was more\nbeautiful than daylight.\"\n\n\"And why should that knowledge distress thee?\" asked the Princess,\nsitting down at his feet.\n\n\"Because I love her. Her voice is music. I am pining to see her.\"\n\nHe trembled as he spoke. The Princess rose, laughing.\n\n\"Well, this is a strange garden,\" she said. \"I did think my Rose-Mallow\nwas sensible. What is it,\" she cried aloud, \"what is this Love, for\nwhich all Nature pines?\"\n\nThere was no answer; but the sun shot down a handful of golden sunbeams\nupon her face, which dazzled her and made her laugh again.\n\n\"Ah! thou wilt know ere long,\" said the Rose-Mallow, much hurt at her\nwant of sympathy. \"Do not think, Princess, that the most beautiful of\nwomen will be allowed to go unscathed.\"\n\nMyra threw her arms around him, to make up for her unfeeling remarks,\nand then in soft tones advised him to climb the wall and look over at\nhis lady-love.\n\n\"But it will take so long, and be so hard!\" he replied.\n\n\"Still, thy reward may be great, sweet flower. Look higher than the\nhomely flowers of thy home, for the blossom beyond the walls may be far\nmore rare, and may outshine them all.\"\n\nSo the Rose-Mallow prepared to follow the Princess's advice, and to\nleave the lilies, and lupins, and all the sweets of the garden behind\nhim.\n\nAs Myra turned to go, she noticed that the Violet had drooped and lay\npanting. She hurried to fetch it some water, for which it returned her\nmodest thanks. She wondered what ailed it to faint in the cool of the\nmorning, when the earth was yet damp with early rain. Then it struck her\nthat the Violet's love for the Rose-Mallow would be of no use if he\nfound the Evening Primrose. \"And I suppose that would make her unhappy,\"\nshe said aloud, as she plucked a bunch of heartsease and placed it in\nher dress, the wonder in her eyes deepening into an expression of grave,\nsevere thoughtfulness.\n\n\n                           III.\n\nProtected by a hedge of myrtle, in the heart of a mighty forest, Love\nhad fashioned his bower. His couch was strewn with honey-flowers and\nrose-leaves. Stately red chrysanthemums made splashes of crimson\nbrilliance against the dark green of the scented myrtle. Pink\ncarnations, roses of every hue, sweetbriar, ambrosia, balsams,\nforget-me-nots, and every flower sacred to the great god, Love, grew in\nprofusion, to make his bower into a resting-place worthy of him.\n\nHe lay tossing on his fragrant couch in a fit of anger. For some time\nPrincess Myra's disdain of all the great princes and nobles whom he had\nsent to woo her had offended him deeply. But on this particular\nafternoon his messengers had informed him of the maiden's morning\ninterview with the Rose-Mallow, and of the question she had asked with\nregard to himself. Unable to forget the Princess's impertinence, he lay\nbrooding and fretting, until the position of the sun warned him that the\nday was passing away.\n\n\"What is this Love for which the whole earth pines?\" he murmured, as he\nbounded from his couch into a cluster of forget-me-nots. \"Ah! I will\nteach thee. Thou shalt learn, ere the day is dead, what Love is. In the\nsemblance of an earthly prince, I will woo thee myself. I will adore\nthee, sweet Myra, gaze into thine eyes, and pretend that there is only\none woman in all the world for me. I will do as men do--pet thee, and\ncoax thee, and win thy affections by the thousand little nothings that\nmake up a courtship. When I have conquered thee, and thy heart is mine,\nI will break it and trample it under foot, and leave thee all thy life a\nremembrance of the power of Love. Thou shalt never hear sweet music, but\na desperate longing for my presence shall come over thee. Thou shalt\nnever see a rose, but thy heart shall bleed. The sight of a lark,\nwinging his morning flight heavenwards, shall draw tears to thy weary\neyes. Ah! woe betide the mortal maid when Eros is her lover!\"\n\n\"These,\" he said, choosing a hundred chrysanthemums, \"shall be my\nescort.\"\n\nAs he spoke, the flowers were transformed into a hundred gallant\nknights; their dresses were of crimson brocade, and on their heads were\ncaps of chrysanthemum petals. Then Love took up honey-flowers and\nrose-leaves, and changed them into a suit of rich purple silk.\n\nMeanwhile the King had been having a far from pleasant interview with\nHer Majesty on the subject of their daughter.\n\n\"Indeed, it is not my fault,\" the Queen had said. \"I cannot help it if\nour child's heart is still whole.\"\n\n\"But, my dear love, thou never givest her any counsel. If thou wert to\ntell her that it is meet she should marry one of the many lords who\ndesire her I feel assured she would do thy will.\"\n\nThe Queen burst into tears. Knowing the girl's parentage as she did, how\ncould she advise her to accept a mortal for her husband? Yet she dared\nnot tell the King of Myra's birth; she must always keep the hateful\nsecret to herself. Oh that she had chosen the straight path when the\nchoice had been hers!\n\nThe King was distressed to see her weep. But just at that moment he\nobserved a small fleet with crimson sails flying up the river towards\nthe royal landing-stage.\n\n\"Why, that must be another suitor for our daughter's hand!\" he\nexclaimed.\n\nAll the flowers remarked the pretty boats scudding along in the late\nafternoon sunlight. The Rose-Mallow alone was too busily employed in\nclimbing the wall to observe what circumstance was disturbing the\nflower-garden. The ladies of the palace, the lords and the pages, were\naware of the visit of the Prince long before he had landed. The\nhousehold was greatly agitated. Their Majesties hurried to the audience\nchamber, to find the Court already assembled to receive the high-born\nvisitor. Myra alone was unconscious of the advent of another suitor. Had\nshe known of it, the fact would only have annoyed her somewhat, and\nmade her eyes a trifle more wistful than they usually were.\n\nSuddenly the Queen entered the Princess's room trembling with\nexcitement.\n\n\"My child, my child! thou must proceed at once to the audience chamber,\nby the King's commands. A great Prince has come to woo thee.\"\n\nMyra was robed in a loose gown of fine linen, her dark hair hung upon\nher shoulders, and a book which she had been reading lay open on her\nknee.\n\n\"Oh, come, let me clothe thee!\" cried the Queen, assisting the girl to\nher feet and hurrying her into the adjoining room, where, with nervous\nfingers, she bound up the thick hair in embroidered bands of opals and\ndiamonds. Then, opening a cedar chest which stood at the end of the\napartment, she drew forth a dress, and was about to slip it over the\nPrincess's head, when Myra started back in amazement.\n\n\"My royal Queen, I cannot wear that garment,\" she said. \"Why, it cost\nthe King, my father, over a hundredweight in gold. I was warned to keep\nit only for great occasions.\"\n\n\"Foolish girl, is not thy betrothal a great occasion? Ah! I do not jest.\nPause until thou hast seen the youth who awaits thee. He is handsome\nbeyond all men that even I, old as I am, have ever looked upon.\"\n\nThe Princess was struck by the Queen's enthusiasm. She allowed herself\nto be attired in the superb robe which had been a present from the King.\nIt was fashioned of rich silk, and had a design of lilies round the hem\nand on the sleeves, each flower being worked with opals and diamonds.\nTwenty maidens had been employed for twenty months embroidering the\ncostly pattern. In sunlight the fabric was pale sea-green, bordering on\nsilver-grey; but when the sky was dull there were faint purple tones in\nits folds, like the soft bloom on the fruit of the plum-tree.\n\nWhen Myra entered the hall a murmur of admiration fell from the lips of\nthe assembly. She had never looked so lovely. She seemed to stand in a\nhalo of light; the opals on her dress reflected themselves in the\ndiamonds, making a haze of pale fantastic colour, strange as it was\nbeautiful. As she entered, the Prince was talking apart with the King;\nso she had a moment in which to observe him before he knew of her\nadvent. He appeared to be a merry youth, with golden curls and blue eyes\nthat were full of mirth and the love of fun. He turned and saw her, and\nfell on one knee and took her hand, lifting up his face to hers. Then,\nas he gazed upon her, the brightness and the mirth that had illuminated\nhis lovely countenance died away. She looked down to see his eyes filled\nwith a new meaning, a wondrous expression of mingled tenderness and pain\nshadowed them. She looked down to see large tears furrowing his cheeks.\nShe looked down to love him!\n\n\n                               IV.\n\n\"In good sooth, sweet lady, thou art beautiful beyond all women that I,\nold as I am, have ever seen,\" said the Prince, in curious repetition of\nthe Queen's description of himself, as he and Myra walked in the palace\ngardens that night.\n\n\"But thou art not old, thou art very young, my lord; and perhaps it is\nthy lack of experience which makes thee think so,\" answered the\nPrincess, modestly hanging her head and seeking to hide her face.\n\nA deep shadow passed over his countenance, and his heart bled at the\nthought of the pain that his trick would cause the maiden by his side.\nOf the everlasting wound it would inflict on him he dared not think.\n\n\"And thou hast lived here all thy life?\" he asked, desirous of changing\nthe subject.\n\n\"All my life,\" she answered.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"And art thou quite happy?\"\n\n\"Good sir, I thought I was; I never wished to change my lot until\nto-day.\"\n\n\"Ah! I have heard of thy dislike of the many suitors who sought thy\nhand.\"\n\n\"Not my dislike, but my indifference. I did not believe in Love. Though\nit was all around me in Nature, still I had never known it; and there\nwas something so imperfect, so earthly, in the great princes who wished\nto marry me. Until to-day I was blindly ignorant.\"\n\n\"Until to-day!\" reiterated the Prince, gazing at her with eyes\nindescribably tender and yearning.\n\n\"But since thou hast asked my father for my hand, and he hath given his\nconsent, I may tell thee all I feel, may I not?\"\n\n\"Ah, sweet Princess! I know all that thou dost feel; I feel all that\nthou wouldst say.\"\n\nThen they were silent for some time. The moon shone, and the floor of\nheaven was studded with silver stars. The flowers were asleep, excepting\nthe Evening Primrose. Myra saw her in the arms of Night, and heard their\ngentle voices. She thought of the Rose-Mallow, and pondered with\nnew-born sympathy on the Violet's pain.\n\n\"Dear one, we must part now,\" said the Prince, as they paused before\nthe palace gates. \"But ere thou goest, tell me, wouldst thou be very\nunhappy if I never came to thee again?\"\n\nA cold fear entered the Princess's heart.\n\n\"My dear lord,\" she said, \"I was only born to-day. My past was not life,\ntherefore I am as a little child, and cannot answer thee with wisdom;\nbut inquire of the flowers, whether they would be sad should the sun\nrise no more. Ah! would they not perish? Would not the world lie down\nand die from cold? Then, good my lord, and thou lovest me, ask me not so\ncruel a question.\"\n\n\"It is fate,\" he murmured, as he held her in his arms and soothed away\nher pain with tender words.\n\nThe Princess awoke the next morning to find the Queen seated beside her\nbed. Myra was too much in love to notice things which would have\nimpressed her under ordinary circumstances, else she would have thought\nher royal mother's manner unnecessarily excitable, and would have\nwondered what secret trouble had suddenly so changed the stately Queen's\nappearance.\n\n\"My child, thy lover waits for thee in thy workroom, therefore rise and\nrobe thee. But before thou goest to him I want thee to refuse the gift\nwith which he will present thee. I am sure it will bring thee\nill-luck.\"\n\n\"But good my mother, the Prince loves me too well to offer me aught that\ncould be a source of sorrow to me. What is the gift?\"\n\n\"It is an AEolian harp,\" said the Queen, in a whisper.\n\n\"An AEolian harp! I have never seen one. Methinks it must be a sweet\ninstrument.\"\n\nThe Queen sighed heavily. She feared that her sin against truth would\novertake her at last.\n\nMyra found the Prince and his attendants engaged in fixing the wind harp\noutside her casement.\n\n\"There,\" he said, as he bent his knee and saluted her hand, \"when I am\naway this will discourse to thee of love.\"\n\n\"But why place it outside the casement, good my lord? I cannot learn to\nplay upon it there.\"\n\n\"Sweet Princess, thou couldst never play upon it, nor could I. The Wind\nalone can draw music from its heart. When he sweeps the strings the\nmelody is as the very breath of love, so tender and yet so wailing is\nthe strain.\"\n\n\"The Wind!\" exclaimed the Princess. \"Hast ever seen the Wind?\"\n\n\"Ay, and romped with him and flown with him over sea and earth.\"\n\n\"Ah! now thou art pleased to be merry, as thou wert yesterday when I\nsaw thee talking to the King, ere we had met. Thy countenance was full\nof mirth and sunlight then. Tell me, why art thou changed? Wherefore art\nthou sad?\"\n\n\"Dear one, I am not sad when I have thy companionship. It is only the\nthought of losing thee that shadows my face.\"\n\nSo they passed out of the chamber into the garden.\n\nThus the time wore away. Summer began to wane. The nights grew longer\nand the days more brief.\n\nThe King's impatience to see his daughter married increased hourly. Yet\nthe Prince daily put him off with excuses when asked to fix the date of\nthe wedding. At length His Majesty grew angry at the delay.\n\n\"It is time,\" he said to Myra, \"that thou wast settled in life. We are\nold, and in all probability have little longer to live. Thy good lord\nseemeth all he should be. In grace of form and beauty of face he stands\nunsurpassed. But methinks, for all that, he means thee ill.\"\n\n\"Indeed, my father, thou art wrong to say so,\" replied the Princess,\nwith difficulty suppressing her anger. \"He is truth itself, and he loves\nme.\"\n\n\"But he will not marry thee!\" the King muttered.\n\n\"There, again, thou art mistaken, my lord. He will marry me to-day--at\nonce, so thou stand pleased withal!\"\n\n\"Bring him before us, then, and let us hear his vow.\"\n\nMyra made a deep obeisance, and left the King's closet.\n\nImmediately she had gone His Majesty despatched a page to summon the\nQueen and Council. They were all assembled before Myra entered with her\nlover. She had not told him for what reason she had been sent in search\nof him; therefore, when he saw the grave faces of those present, he was\nsurprised. The King rose and addressed him in dignified words, Myra\nmaking her way to her royal mother's side.\n\n\"Good my lord, our daughter tells us that thou art willing thy nuptials\nshould be celebrated as soon as we consider meet. We have conferred with\nthese grave counsellors, and they think with us that the ceremony should\ntake place to-day.\"\n\n\"To-day, most powerful sovereign! Is not to-day somewhat soon? Methinks\nit were not well to hurry the Princess.\"\n\n\"Our child hath given her consent, noble sir. Hast thou not, my\ndaughter?\"\n\n\"An' it please my dear lord, I have,\" was the low reply.\n\nThere was a long silence in the chamber. Every eye was fixed on Myra's\nlover. He stood gazing on the beautiful face of her whom he\nworshipped--a gloomy figure in his purple garments, his eyes full of\ninfinite sorrow.\n\n\"It seemeth that the Prince hesitateth,\" said the King, in a threatening\nvoice.\n\nMyra left the Queen, and with bent head approached her love.\n\n\"My good knight,\" she said, \"methinks I do but dream; or, if I am awake,\nthen hast thou changed, or some trouble hath befallen thee. Speak; my\nfather awaits thine answer. Shall our wedding be to-day?\"\n\n\"Fair lady, nothing could change my love, nor hath any trouble befallen\nme; and yet, our marriage ceremony cannot be solemnised to-day.\"\n\n\"Then to-morrow, good sir,\" said the King, \"or the week after?\"\n\n\"Your Majesty, the daughters of earth will never see the celebration of\nour nuptials.\"\n\nThe King turned grey with wrath, and gasped for breath as if death was\nupon him. The Council rose; the Queen rushed to her royal consort's\nside. Myra sank down in a heap at her lover's feet. He knelt beside her\nfor one brief second.\n\n\"Forgive me,\" he murmured, \"forgive me, in that I shall suffer\neternally, whilst thy pain will end in the grave. Farewell, dear one;\nwould I were mortal for thy sake. Love bids thee farewell.\"\n\nWhen the King recovered his senses the Prince had disappeared. The\ncountry was scoured for miles round, but not a trace of him nor his\nfollowers could be found. No member of the royal household noticed a\nhundred beautiful red chrysanthemums, which had suddenly rooted\nthemselves in the palace garden.\n\n\n                              V.\n\nMyra wandered about the precincts of her home like one distraught with\nsorrow. The sun of her life had gone out, and left all dark and cold and\ndesolate. The flowers had lost their rare colours, and had clothed\nthemselves in sombre tints of red and purple. The river had lost its\nmerry voice, and went sobbing through the grounds. Many days passed, and\nlife became one long memory. With brooding and sorrowing over her lost\nLove she grew pale and thin. Her eyes became wan and hollow, and misery\nclosed her lips.\n\nSome weeks after the Prince had disappeared she visited her garden. The\nflowers had grown tall and straggling, the walks were weedy, the lawn\nhad lost its velvet softness, and all was desolation. As she walked,\nweeping, beside the once brilliant border, she saw the Rose-Mallow lying\nhalf-dead across her path.\n\n\"Alas, sweet flower! what aileth thee?\" she said, lifting his head and\nlooking into his face.\n\n\"My dear mistress, I am hurt to death,\" he murmured.\n\n\"Speak. Tell me thy sorrow.\"\n\n\"I worked by day and by night to climb the wall of the garden, and after\nmuch labour I reached the summit, just as the sun was setting. There I\nsaw the lady whose melodious voice had won my heart. Ah, fair Princess!\nshe was more beautiful than dawn or daylight. I gazed at her, and told\nher that I loved her; but she would not even look at me; she spread\nforth her pale blossoms with sweet pride. 'I love the Night alone, and\nonly raise my face to his,' she said. Then I drooped and drooped with\npain. I am indeed hurt to death,\" he moaned.\n\nShe threw her arms around him, while her tears fell on his poor faded\nleaves; and when the moon had risen her favourite lay dead in the once\nhappy garden.\n\nThe Princess fetched her golden spade, and dug his grave where he had\nlived. Then she bent down and plucked a little cluster of flowers from\nthe Violet whose love had been wasted, to place upon the earth above\nhis resting-place; and from each blossom a tear-drop flowed from the\nViolet's heart.\n\n\"Ah! if I had not advised him to seek his love away from those with whom\nhis life had been passed,\" moaned Myra. \"He could have cared for one of\nthe flowers in the garden before he saw the Evening Primrose; his life\nwas spoilt through my counsel, and ended in pain. And, oh! that I had\nbeen as other women, and had taken a knight of my father's court for\nhusband. If only I had put up with little imperfections, then this\ntrouble had not come upon me. But now life is over, and I can never know\nhappiness again.\"\n\nThat night Fate told the North Wind the story of his child. On his\nmountain home he learned of the Queen's treachery, of Myra's early life,\nand of Love's hateful blunder.\n\nSpreading his powerful wings, by Fate's command, he flew earthwards, to\nbear his daughter to the halls of that dread arbiter of destiny. He was\noppressed with sorrow. The snow-flowers hid their heads as he rushed,\nsobbing, down the mountain; the earth shook at his voice as he shrieked\nthrough village and valley; the dead leaves sighed as he scattered them\nin thousands before him. But when he gained the palace gardens and\napproached his daughter's window his fierce sorrow abated, and he\ntouched the strings of her harp with gentle fingers. The first strains\nwere more like the voice of the South Wind than that of the wilder\nNorth. Then followed long wailing strains of melody, as of a soul in\ndistress.\n\nMyra, sitting brooding on her misery, became strangely roused, as she\nheard the weird instrument played upon by a master hand. Often the sad\nmusic seemed to be the voice of her lover; then the tones softened to a\nsigh; it was the Rose-Mallow's dying sob.\n\nAn overmastering wish seized her to open the casement. She must admit\nthose pleading tones, or her heart would break. Unable to quell the\ndesire, she threw wide the window.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThere stood a tall, winged man. His shaggy hair was heavy and black, his\nface was gaunt and wild. He was sweeping the harp-strings with long,\nbony fingers. Strange and uncouth and terrible as he looked, there was\nsuch strength about the great figure, such power in the face, that the\nPrincess, though terror-stricken, was drawn towards him. And when he saw\nher leaning from her casement, so gentle an expression crossed his worn\nvisage, that her fear of him departed instantly, and she said:--\n\n\"I know thee, great master. Thou art the Wind, and thou hast met my\nLove. Ah, in mercy take me to him!\"\n\n\"Wilt thou not be afraid to entrust thyself to my arms?\" he whispered.\n\n\"Good sir, carry me all over the earth, through frozen worlds of endless\nice, so thou layest me at my lord's feet at last, and I shall not know a\nmoment's fear. I love him!\" she said simply.\n\nThe Wind clasped her in his arms and flew away, lulling her to sleep as\nhe went.\n\nWhen the Princess awoke she was standing in a gloomy cavern. The walls\nwere of black onyx. A stream of crystal water ran gurgling at her feet.\n\nWhen her eyes became more accustomed to the haze and dimness of the\nplace, she saw a sight which made her wish to shriek aloud; but her\nvoice seemed to have gone, and she stood powerless and terror-stricken.\nAs she gazed a light seemed to break upon her mind.\n\nFate, robed in lowering mists, sat gazing into a divining glass, with\nkeen, prophetic eyes; with her right hand she held Love in strong and\nterrible grasp. In the crouching, penitent figure, Myra recognised, with\nbursting heart, that her Prince and Love were one. Then she became\nconscious of the deep voice of Fate ringing through the gloom in\nthreatening tones.\n\n\"Thou didst think thou couldst play with her affections as thou dost\nwith those of a mortal maid, couldst win her love and break her heart by\nthy desertion! But, trickster as thou art, in thine own net art thou\ncaught. See, where each tear she lets fall, a lily springs.\"\n\nMyra's eyes followed Fate's pointing finger. Love looked up and saw the\nPrincess standing in a cluster of white lilies.\n\n\"Know that she is a spirit, immortal as thyself; a child of the Winds,\nnursed on the salt Sea's breast. Therefore, as thou only canst feel\npunishment in her agony, she shall be called Grief. Henceforth, in all\nLove there shall be much of bitterness. Parting from the thing loved\nshall be the keenest pang of human pain. She shall visit her\nfoster-parents but once again, and mingle her sobs with theirs. She\nshall pursue thee through the ages, and fear of her coming shall lessen\nthy rapture. Disappointment, despair, and misery, shall walk in her\ntrain. Man shall weep tears of blood in that thou hast created Grief!\"\n\nLove shrieked aloud in pain, and flinging aside the cruel hand of Fate,\nthrew his arms about the shrinking girl. They stood in the misty gloom\ntogether, his brilliant form regained its strength. Grief lifted her\nbrimming eyes to his and caught their power.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nA great wave of tenderness broke over the mournful face of Fate; her\ncalm glance rested prophetically on the two figures as she addressed\nthem for the last time.\n\n\"But her love of thee shall endure until the Lilies of Grief are lost in\nthe Roses of Love; for Love shall be king of Grief, and of Time, and of\nEternity.\"\n\n[Illustration: UNTIL THE LILIES OF GRIEF ARE LOST IN THE ROSES OF LOVE]\n\n\n\n\n                The Flower that reached the Sun-lands\n\n[Illustration: The Flower that reached the Sun-lands]\n\n  \"No star is ever lost we once have seen\n  We always may be what we might have been\"\n                                  Adelaide Procter\n\n\n                                I.\n\nThough only a miserable little waif, born in sorrow and nurtured in\npoverty, George Ermen had resolved to be a great man.\n\nHe earned six shillings a week at sorting rags and paper, adding\nfrequently to this a smaller sum gained by cleaning pots at a\npublic-house. It was a miserable pittance. He and his mother could\nhardly be said to live upon it, they only existed; and they found this\nstill more difficult when George's father, a lazy, ne'er-do-well, came\nto visit them.\n\nThe boy and his mother dwelt in a garret in Paradise Court. It was a\nbare, miserable room, its only furniture an old iron bedstead, a rickety\ntable, and two chairs. Opening out of the attic was a tiny chamber with\na mattress in one corner, on which George slept. He had no bed-clothes,\nand was in the habit of covering himself with papers during the chill\nwinter nights.\n\nOn the wall hung a small plaster crucifix. A sprig of box was thrust\nthrough the ring by which the cross was suspended. The window looked out\nupon a wilderness of chimneys and grimy tenement houses.\n\nIt seemed to George that God had been very good to him, although he was\npoor and ragged and half starved, for besides his old mother, whom he\nloved above everything, he had three good friends--Father Francis, the\nRoman Catholic priest; Miss Brand, who was devoting both time and money\nto the suffering poor in the district; and Maggie Reed, his little\nsweetheart, who was as poverty-stricken and as tattered as himself.\n\nGeorge sang in the choir at the church. He possessed a beautiful voice,\nand the priest felt sure that were it possible to procure him an\nefficient musical training he would have a future. But it seemed rash to\neven hope for a chance for the boy among the squalor and misery and sin\nwhich surrounded the poor. Father Francis, however, did not lose heart,\nbecause he was a good man, believing in God, and feeling convinced that\nHe would stretch forth His hand to the waif and help him in His own\ngood time. The lad himself was even more hopeful than the priest,\nbecause he was young, and had resolved that death alone should prevent\nthe fulfilment of his vow.\n\nNot that poor George Ermen had much idea of what the term \"a great man\"\nmeant, excepting that they usually dressed in frock coats, wore gaiters\nover their boots, and drove about in a carriage, all of which seemed\nvery pleasant and most desirable to the bare-footed waif.\n\nStrangely enough, he was frequently pondering over very material things\nwhen he sang his best and when his eyes seemed most dreamy.\n\n\"What were you a-thinking of this mornin' in church when you was singin'\nthe _Ave Maria_?\" his mother had once inquired.\n\n\"Why, didn't I sing it well?\" he asked anxiously.\n\n\"Yaas, better than ever before, and yer faice looked loike an angel's.\"\n\n\"Well, I was promisin' God that if ever I got rich enough to ride about\nin a carriage like the lords do that come and lay foundation stones and\nopens schools and things, I'd invite all the little children what's so\nmiserable to tea and muffins.\"\n\nMrs. Ermen smiled sadly. She had no belief in her son ever rising to be\nanything better than a wretched waif, fated to live and die in Paradise\nCourt. But as long as he was honest, and brave, and true to his friends,\nshe must not complain. She was content, almost happy indeed, when she\nlooked around her and saw boys of George's age swearing and fighting and\ndrinking, while George was sober, well behaved, and industrious.\n\nMaggie Reed knew in her young soul that George would surely live to be a\ngreat man, and often when they roamed about the weary streets together,\nshe would cheer him with her childish confidence.\n\n\"We'll live on 'Ampstead 'Eath, George, when you're rich and we're\nmarried, at one of them big 'ouses by the pond, and we'll 'ave donkey\nrides and bicycles and things.\"\n\n\"Yes, darling,\" George would answer.\n\nBy the advice of Father Francis they often spent hours in the parks and\nsquares, where the air was sweeter than that of Paradise Court; but\nfrequently George's little sweetheart grew so tired that he had to carry\nher on his back most of the way home again.\n\nIt was a cold day in early spring. Mrs. Ermen sat shivering in a corner\nof their garret, when her boy bounded into the room carrying a geranium\nin a pot.\n\n\"Mother, mother,\" he cried in wild excitement, \"Miss Brand is gettin' up\na geranium show! It's ter come off in July. Four hundred plants have\nbeen given out to the children this morning. They are to keep them,\nwater them, attend to them, make them grow and flower, and when the day\ncomes round for the show the plants must be taken to the schoolroom, and\nthe best will get a prize.\"\n\n\"Who is ter judge?\" asked Mrs. Ermen, catching George's excitement.\n\n\"A lord!\"\n\n\"A lord?\"\n\n\"Yes, one of them that wears gaiters over their boots. And I am going to\nwin the first prize!\" he added firmly, his sharp face wearing an\nexpression of happy anticipation.\n\n\"I 'ope you will, my dear,\" she answered, kissing him, and breathing a\nprayer from her poor ignorant soul for the good woman whose unselfish\ndevotion had brought that look into her boy's face.\n\nTime passed, and the bitter, easterly winds proved to be more than Mrs.\nErmen could bear. She became too weak to rise, and when George grew\nalarmed she tried to comfort him by saying that she felt warmer in bed;\nand when June came she should be about again, and he must not distress\nhimself for her sake.\n\nSupposing she should die! Men and women died frequently in Paradise\nCourt. Their bodies were carried out of the squalid dwellings and\nrattled over the streets to the crowded burial ground. The thought smote\nhim painfully, and made a burning flush mount to his face. She must not\ndie! What would riches and greatness mean to him unless she were there\nto share in his good fortune?\n\n\n                                 II.\n\nThe geranium was not at all happy in her new quarters. Although George\nattended to her wants most carefully she still thought with bitter\nregret of the greenhouse where she had been reared, and of the old\ngardener who had ministered to her. Here on the window sill of George's\nattic thousands of smuts settled daily upon her leaves, and the air was\nheavy. So great was her discomfort that she would have most certainly\nceased to live had not a sunbeam lost his way among the narrow courts of\nthe city, and while darting in and out of the grimy streets in his\nendeavours to find the sun, espied the unhappy flower. He immediately\nclimbed up his golden ladder, and rested among the broad green leaves,\nmuch to her delight.\n\nShe confided her pitiful history to this new-found friend, who was so\nkind and sympathetic that the geranium grew warm and happy. Presently\nthe sun shone out in the murky sky, and immediately the sunbeam glided\nalong his golden thread and rejoined his parent. He did not, however,\nforsake the plant which had sheltered him, but frequently visited her,\nso that she forgot her struggle for life, and grew into a fine healthy\ngeranium, much to the delight of her young master.\n\nAs time passed George began to realise that his mother would never rise\nfrom her bed again. Father Francis had gently told him that there was\nlittle hope of her recovery, and that when the great blow fell upon him\nhe must reconcile himself to the will of the Almighty.\n\nThe poor waif suffered many hours of agony alone in his garret. Kneeling\nbefore the crucifix, he would beg God to spare the one thing he loved in\nall the world.\n\n\"I have so few comforts, dear Lord,\" he would say, \"no clothes, little\nfood; I can stand want if only you will not take her away.\" But when he\nwas tired out with pain, he would raise his lips to the pierced feet,\nand kissing them, murmur, \"Thy will be done.\"\n\nHis imagination had so often realised the picture that one morning, on\nfinding his mother dead in her bed, he was hardly shocked.\n\nThe doctor said that death had resulted from syncope, accelerated by\nwant of nourishment and neglect.\n\nSo the waif was left alone. His bright look departed. The wish for\ngreatness was forgotten in his sorrow, and even his little sweetheart\nfailed to comfort him.\n\nOn hearing of George's sad plight his father returned to live with him.\nThe boy's saddened face touched Ermen's hard heart, and for a time the\nson's misery was alleviated by his parent's kindness. His father was\ndecently dressed, and evidently had a little money, for food was more\nplentiful in the garret than it had ever been during George's\nremembrance.\n\nThanks to the sunbeam's care, the geranium continued to thrive\nmarvellously, and as show day drew near she approached her prime.\n\nMiss Brand gave George a clean collar and a decent jacket, and Father\nFrancis bought him his first pair of shoes for the great occasion.\n\nOn the morning of the distribution he was up at five o'clock, for at\nthat early hour he had been told to take his geranium to the schoolroom,\nand enter it for the competition.\n\nVery gently he watered the leaves, taking care that not a drop should\nfall upon one of the five brilliant blossoms. As he stood admiring the\nplant he was surprised to hear footsteps in the adjoining room. His\nfather had been away some days. He thought he must have returned earlier\nthan he had expected. He therefore hurried to the door, and opened it, a\njoyful expression on his face. But it was the landlady, who stood there\nholding a dirty-looking letter in her hand.\n\n\"Look 'ere, sonnie, your father's been took ter gaol. 'E was on 'is way\n'ome when the perlice took 'im in charge for that big jewel robbery at\nManchester. 'E's wrote me this letter,\" she said, pausing to unfold the\ndirty piece of paper, while George stood pale to the lips with terror.\n\n\"'E sends you this message: 'Tell my son not ter grieve for me. It's all\nquite true what they says against me. I am a scamp, and always have\nbeen.'\"\n\n\"'E'll get a lifer, that's a certainty,\" she observed to the lodgers\ndownstairs when she had left the horror-stricken boy alone.\n\nGeorge couldn't weep at this last blow. He had not shed a tear since his\nmother's death. The agony in his heart was therefore all the more\nunbearable. He clenched his hands in pain.\n\nHours passed, the bitterest he had ever spent. Whatever suffering the\nfuture held for him he never experienced such anguish again.\n\nAt last he raised his head. His face was white, his eyes were heavy and\ndull.\n\n\"Everything is against me,\" he moaned. \"My mother's dead; my father, who\nhad become so kind, taken and thrown into gaol. Why should I suffer\nhunger and cold and disgrace and beggary? Other boys, through no merit\nof theirs, are born rich. Why wasn't I a lord's son instead of a waif of\nthe streets? Why should my mother die of neglect, when others have all\nthey need? Oh! I'll ask God to kill me; death ain't so very terrible.\nI've seen lots of boys of my age fished out of the river. It's only a\nfew moments' pain, and Jesus wouldn't be 'ard on a little chap what's\nben drove to it.\"\n\nThe geranium trembled with fear as she heard the boy's wild words. She\nspread out her blossoms and endeavoured to attract his attention.\n\nSuddenly the garret was brilliantly illuminated. The sunbeam had glided\ndown his golden ladder, and stood on the window sill.\n\nGeorge was amazed. He must be dreaming! What was this beautiful tiny\ncreature enveloped in a haze of glory?\n\n\"The angels are sad when you despair, little boy. Gather your energies.\nReceive your prize! You are ungrateful to the flower which has grown\ninto so beautiful a plant for your sake. You are ungrateful to your God\nthus to abandon hope when you possess one of His greatest gifts.\"\n\n\"What gift?\"\n\n\"Youth, a magic watchword that can open the enchanted gates in the land\nof genius.\"\n\n\"Genius?\" said the boy wonderingly. \"I have never heard of it.\"\n\n\"Live your life. Lose not a moment. At your years time flies. Be a great\nand a good man. Persevere. Out of the mire of this wilderness a golden\nflower shall rear its head, and grow in beauty day by day. It may even\nreach the Sun-lands.\"\n\n\n                                III.\n\nThe schoolroom looked like a little paradise to the poor waifs assembled\nthere. Many flags hung from the roof, and festoons of evergreens\ndecorated the walls. A raised platform was covered with scarlet cloth.\nOn this were many well-dressed ladies, the seat of honour being filled\nby Lord Eltonville, who had consented to distribute the prizes. The\ngeraniums were displayed around the room. Some amongst them were frail\nand sickly looking,--they had not been able to thrive in their squalid\nand sunless abodes,--others appeared more promising, and a few\namongst the number had grown strong and handsome.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOf the four hundred plant cuttings thirty alone had not been returned\nfor competition.\n\nAt one side of the platform was a table upon which the prizes were\narranged. They consisted of workboxes, paints, tops, knives, drums,\nbooks, blotters, aprons, pencils, etc.\n\nMiss Brand, much distressed at the news of Ermen's arrest, and at his\nson's nonappearance, had told the story to some of the visitors, and a\ngreat deal of interest and sympathy were excited in his favour.\n\nFather Francis had just uncovered the prizes. The crowd of children\npushed and scrambled to get a look at the good things; but at a word\nfrom their lady chief even the most turbulent grew quiet.\n\nSome lovely countenances were discernible among the little gathering.\nUnder ordinary circumstances they would hardly have been noticed for the\ndirt and grime which covered them; but this was a gala day, and, thanks\nto Miss Brand's kind care, each child's face and hands had been washed,\nand their white collars lent an air of cleanliness even to the most\nragged and worn dress.\n\nSuddenly there was a stir in the room. A boy was seen advancing through\nthe crowd holding a magnificent geranium in his arms.\n\nFather Francis welcomed George in a quiet, kindly way. His plant was\nplaced upon the platform for inspection, and it was universally agreed\nthat had it been in time for the competition George would have taken the\nfirst prize.\n\nGrieved that her little friend should be too late, Miss Brand hastily\nunfastened a silver compass from her watch chain and gave it to Lord\nEltonville, to whom she said a few private words.\n\nThe atmosphere was stifling, and George was faint for want of food. Many\nof the children's mothers were present holding infants in their arms.\nTheir worn, anxious faces beamed with delight as Lord Eltonville rose to\ndistribute the prizes.\n\n\"George Ermen, in consideration of your misfortune, Miss Brand wishes to\noverlook the fact that your geranium was not entered for the competition\nthis morning. I have, therefore, the great pleasure of awarding you a\nspecial extra prize, the presentation of which shall have precedence in\nour day's business.\"\n\nGeorge walked to the platform and received the pretty silver compass, a\nflush of pride and delight colouring his pale cheek.\n\n\"Let me advise you to cultivate smilax round your window,\" added his\nlordship, doubtless thinking of his magnificent greenhouses, and little\nrealising the misery and squalor in which the waifs of the great city\ndwelt.\n\n\"Smilax!\" murmured George wonderingly.\n\n\"Yes, it is a beautiful creeper, and ought to grow nicely round your\nwindow and make you quite a little bower.\"\n\nThe excitement of the children could no longer be curbed. Miss Brand was\nheartily glad when the distribution was over, and she could see the poor\nwaifs happy with their little presents. It would be difficult to\ndescribe their joy. Many of their number had never possessed anything\nbefore. To have a book, a doll, a top, a pencil--something that was\ntheir very own--seemed like a delightful dream.\n\nFather Francis had resolved to strike a blow for his _protege_ before\nthe day was over. Just as Lord Eltonville was preparing to depart, he\ntold him that there was a little chorister among his flock who had a\nlovely voice, and that if his lordship would oblige him by staying\nthrough the short prayer with which they were about to end the day's\npleasure he would hear the boy sing.\n\nThe nobleman graciously complied, and stood, hat in hand, while the\npriest said a Paternoster and three Aves, the children joining in\nfervently. Then Father Francis rose and sat at the harmonium. His\nlordship watched George take his place beside his spiritual director. He\nnoticed the lad's pale, worn face, his ragged clothes, and his air of\nutter helplessness, and felt sorry that the good priest should have\nprevailed upon him to stay and witness the poor little fellow's failure.\n\nThere was not a sound in the schoolroom. The grand ladies held their\nbreath in pity. Miss Brand looked anxious. The children longed for the\nsuccess of their gentle comrade, and Maggie's heart beat with suppressed\nexcitement.\n\n\"_Te Deum Laudamus, te Dominum confitemur._\"\n\nThe voice seemed to pierce the heavens, so fresh and pure was its tone.\nLord Eltonville's heart stood still. The waif's face had changed with\nthose first words of praise; it had become illuminated with a great\nlight, his insignificant little figure had gained a king's dignity.\n\n\"_Te aeternum Patrem omnis terra veneratur._\"\n\nLord Eltonville's imagination was fired by the music. He seemed to be in\na little church of his own that was full of the perfume of incense. The\nlow of distant oxen and the ripple of the river came through the open\nwindow. His only son, who died at about George's age, lay buried in the\nchurchyard; the small grave was yellow with early primroses. He, too,\nhad an angel's voice, stilled for ever excepting in his father's memory.\n\n\"_Tu Rex gloriae, Christe._\"\n\nTears fell from the nobleman's eyes. Nor song of lark, nor rustle of\nwaving grass, nor anything he had ever heard in all nature, had touched\nhim so deeply as the waif's rendering of that hymn of praise.\n\nAs the last words died away Lord Eltonville stepped forward with\noutstretched hand; but George's strength was exhausted, the flush died\naway from his face, and he fell backwards into the priest's arms.\n\n\n                              IV.\n\nTime and circumstances change men, some for good and some for ill. It is\nan acknowledged fact that success often spoils the best natures,\nalthough to those on whom Fortune seldom smiles, this is hard to\nrealise.\n\nThanks to Lord Eltonville's generosity and kind care, George Ermen had\nbecome a great man. His wish had been gratified; he had earned money and\nposition.\n\nTwenty years had passed since the geranium show. The ragged waif of that\nday had owned a sweet, loving nature, which seemed lost in the great\nmusician of St. James's.\n\nHis father had died in prison. His mother's memory had scarcely\nsurvived. He never spoke of his early days, and looked upon them as a\ndisgrace. Miss Brand's name seldom occurred to him, Father Francis was\nforgotten, and Maggie Reed languished in poverty.\n\nIn a gorgeous mansion, replete with every luxury, the musician sat at\ndinner with his young wife. The room was elegantly furnished; the walls\nwere hung with fine oil-paintings. The table was decorated with\nhot-house flowers. Outside it was snowing, and the night was bitterly\ncold.\n\nThere was a great hush in the house. In the morning they had buried\ntheir only child. She had lived a year, and the first snow of winter had\ncovered her grave.\n\nGeorge Ermen's selfish heart had been deeply touched by the loss of the\nlittle one, and somehow, when dinner was over, and he sat alone in his\nstudy, the remembrance of his childhood came over him like a forgotten\nstrain of music.\n\nThe snow, every now and then, fell hissing into the fire which blazed\nupon the hearth.\n\nThe musician sat down to the organ and sang a few snatches from his\nMass, which was to be given for the first time on Christmas Day.\n\n\"There is a poor woman at the door, dear,\" said his wife, coming in\nsilently and standing near him, a pathetic figure in her black dress.\n\n\"Oh, Mary, I can't see anybody to-day,\" he answered, placing his arm\nround her with unwonted gentleness.\n\n\"Gordon tried to dismiss her, George; but she seemed so distressed, and\nbegged so hard to be allowed to speak with you, that he came to me, and\nwhen I saw her----\"\n\n\"I understand, dear, I know your tender heart. If I gave in to you we\nshouldn't have a penny in the world----\"\n\n\"We are so rich, George, we could give and give, and never feel it----\"\n\n\"Well, well, don't cry, Mary. What is the woman's name?\"\n\n\"Maggie Reed!\"\n\nMaggie Reed. The little face seemed to rise up before him as an angel's\namong the squalid surroundings of his childhood.\n\n\"Let her come in, dear,\" he said, with a tenderness in his voice that\nshe had seldom heard of late.\n\nPresently Maggie stood before him, ragged and wet, her pale face worn\nwith want and suffering. She must have been about twenty-eight; but she\nlooked ten years older.\n\n\"Maggie!\" he cried, taking her hand, and placing her in a chair.\n\n\"Mr. Ermen. I came ter ask yer somethin, not ter beg. Don't think I've\ncome ter beg. I want yer ter let Father Francis say yer Mass. 'E's seen\nall about it in the papers, how it's ter be sung on Christmas Day. 'E's\nan old man, and he would never ask yer 'imself, but 'e always thinks of\nyer, and prays for yer.\"\n\n\"And do you?\" murmured George.\n\nWhat a low cur he had been to let this poor girl suffer all her life!\nAnd his other humble friends, too, whom he had vowed never to forsake!\n\n\"I hev' prayed for yer every night and morning since yer left us. I've\nsaid, 'God bless him, and make him great.' Yer see, sir, women don't\nforget.\"\n\n\n                                V.\n\nIt was Christmas Day. The church was filled with great and fashionable\npeople. Among the gorgeous crowd were to be seen Miss Brand and Maggie\nReed, the latter in a warm dress of grey cloth.\n\nNearer the altar knelt George and his wife, his eyes often seeking the\nplace where his friends were seated.\n\nFather Francis, assisted by two other priests, was officiating.\n\nGeorge looked happier to-day. The presence of his hitherto forgotten\ncompanions had revived him, and the good father had spoken soothing\nwords to him about his child's death. George had been overcome, and\nunaccustomed tears coursed down his face as he clasped the father's\nhand, and said,--\n\n\"Ah! one's early friends are true. Their love makes life worth having.\"\n\nWhile the choir sang the _Gloria in Excelsis_, the musician's thoughts\nhad strayed to his early days. He was thinking of the sunbeam, and\nwondering whether its visit was a dream. If so, it must have been a\ndream straight from God, for that day had gained him his career.\n\nThe golden flower had reared its head very near to the Sun-lands. Would\nit ever reach them?\n\nHe remembered a secret drawer in his escritoire, in which there was a\nsmall plaster crucifix, a faded geranium leaf, and a silver compass. He\nhad kept these little relics, and yet he had ceased to remember the\nfriends who had smoothed the rough pages of his childhood and pencilled\nhis name in the book of fortune.\n\nBut Father Francis and Maggie and Miss Brand should be safe now; they\nshould know no further sorrow!\n\nThe sun burst forth in the winter sky, shone into the church, and\nbrightened the gloomy corners.\n\nGeorge knew well in his heart that it was not his care that had made the\ngeranium thrive. The sunbeam which he pretended to treat as a dream had\nnourished it. However, if that chapter in his life was blurred and\nmisty, to-day's was clear.\n\nThe Mass that was being sung was his masterpiece. It was the outpouring\nof his soul. He would compose still greater religious works. What more\nwonderful theme could he have than a God's agony!\n\n\"_Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus!_\" muttered the priest. The consecration\ndrew near, the people bent their heads.\n\nStill the musician remained lost in his thoughts. All over the world the\nadvent of the Babe of Bethlehem was being celebrated. What a wonderful\nstory it was! The star in the East, the wise men, the Infant wrapped in\nswaddling clothes and cradled in a manger. His unrecorded childhood, His\nlove for little children, the more forsaken and forlorn, the greater His\nlove. And he had been rich and prosperous, and yet had never given a\nthought to those poor little waifs whose life he himself had once lived.\nHappy in the love of his own child, he had forgotten the woes of others.\nGod had taken her away; but he would accept the Divine warning, and\nfollow in the Divine footsteps. He would open his heart to the children\nof the poor; he would clothe them and give them bread.\n\nThe priest lifted the chalice. On the incense veiled altar the musician\nsaw a sunbeam dart into the Holy Cup, and he heard the well-remembered\nvoice breathe forth a glorious message,--\n\n\"Clothe them and give them bread. In that last vow the flower has\nreached the Sun-lands.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"THOU SHALT CLOTHE THEM AND GIVE THEM BREAD\"]\n\n\n\n\n                      THE GARDEN OF INNOCENCE\n\n[Illustration: THE GARDEN OF INNOCENCE]\n\n  \"A Book of Verses underneath the Bough\n  A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread and Thou\n  Beside me singing in the Wilderness\n  Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow!\"\n                                Omar Khayyam\n\n\n                                   I.\n\nMany a year ago, in a land that was washed by the sea, there lived a\nKing who had an only son whom he loved very dearly.\n\nFertile gardens surrounded the palace. They extended for miles and\nmiles. In the distance the sapphire sea looked like a calm lake. The\ngardens were rich in flowers, which bloomed all the year in this land of\nperpetual summer. There were lilies and violets, hyacinths, carnations,\ncyclamens, and orchids; but the rose was mistress of the land, and they\ncalled it the \"Rose Islands.\" The trees were filled with song-birds, and\nthe air was fragrant with perfume tempered by the sea.\n\nIf ever mortal man was framed for happiness, the Prince of the Rose\nIslands was he--a youth of a gallant disposition, his golden hair\nhanging from beneath his jewelled cap, his brown eyes half hidden by\ntheir long lashes. His doublet was of white brocade, his hose and\npointed shoes of silk; he was the _beau ideal_ of a prince in form and\nfigure, and brave as he was amiable, two royal qualities.\n\nThe King, his father, observing that he appeared to be sad when it\nseemed to him he should be most happy, asked Ulric what troubled him.\n\n\"I am lonely, so please your Grace, and I would fain have a friend.\"\n\n\"I am thy friend, sweet son. Have I done aught that should forfeit me\nthy friendship?\"\n\n\"My lord the King, I am always thine--thine in true obedience, thine in\nthe sight of God, thine in filial love, but not in friendship. Though I\ndream of it night and day, I have never known friendship; sometimes,\nindeed, I fear that it cannot exist,\" replied the Prince sadly.\n\n\"Nay, Ulric, in good sooth, thou art mistaken. Look about thee, in the\npalace. The noble lords of our Court, the high-born pages who minister\nto thy wants, are all thy humble and devoted friends.\"\n\n\"Father, prithee pardon me for my temerity in differing from thy\ngracious word; but those of whom thou speakest are not my friends. They\nknow that I am all-powerful with thee. They are but fawning sycophants,\nwho feed upon thy bounty. If the sentiment they profess to cherish for\nme be friendship, then indeed my dreams of the meaning of the word are\nhollow, as hollow as is my life in this paradise of beauty.\"\n\nThe King laid his hand upon his son's head, and looked into his sad\nface.\n\n\"My poor child,\" he said, \"God knows I love thee better than myself. Art\nthou not my successor to these fair islands? Tell me, what can a King do\nfor thy comfort?\"\n\n\"Prithee, good my lord, send for the Lady Christabel, the daughter of\nthe great Earl, thy subject, and for Prince Winfred, the heir of that\nland yonder, which reflects itself in our sea; let them live here for a\ntime, and help me to discover the meaning of that magic word\nfriendship.\"\n\nThe King gave orders that an escort should start at once to bring the\nLady Christabel to his palace. He also commanded that a ship should be\nbuilt, in which to fetch Prince Winfred of the Sea Islands.\n\nLady Christabel arrived in the evening of the next day. She was mounted\non a white steed, and was clad in a silken robe of opaline hue, her\ncloak and cap jewelled with moonstones. Ulric stood on the steps of the\npalace to receive her. She knelt and kissed his hand, and then looked\nupwards into his face. He noted the abundance of her dark hair and the\nstrange beauty of her changing eyes, which were grey and blue by turn,\nas were the hues of her silken gown.\n\n\"Welcome, sweet Christabel, to our palace,\" said the Prince. \"Dost think\nthou canst be happy here?\"\n\n\"Ah, my dear lord, ask me if I could be happy in Paradise.\"\n\nUlric flushed with pleasure, and led her up the marble steps to the\nKing's audience chamber. As the doors unclosed a sweet melody floated on\nthe air, increased in volume for a brief space, then grew fainter and\ndied away. Christabel found herself in an immense room. The walls were\nset with rubies, the floor was of rock crystal, strewn with pink and\nwhite rose-leaves. In the centre of the hall, upon a dais covered with\ncloth of gold, sat the King, in his robes of state. The ladies of the\nCourt, the lords and the pages, were clad in silks of various colours.\nPrince Ulric led Christabel to the foot of the throne.\n\n\"Welcome to our Court, my child,\" said the King. \"Our dear son is\nlonely; wilt thou befriend him? Wilt thou teach him the solace of\nfriendship? Wilt thou prove to him that it is a reality and not a\ndream?\"\n\n\"Most gracious King,\" replied Christabel, \"I will teach him all I know\nof selfless, sacrificing, eternal friendship.\"\n\n\"It does exist, then?\" asked the Prince eagerly.\n\n\"Do the stars exist, my good lord, or the sun or the roses?\"\n\n\"The roses wither, sweet lady, even here, in paradise.\"\n\n\"But friendship, good my lord, is a deathless rose; its leaves are\nimmortal.\"\n\n\n                                II.\n\nAt last Prince Ulric was happy. The days passed freighted with golden\nhours. He roamed with Christabel among the Rose Islands, and showed her\nthe wonders thereof. Every day they inspected the progress made in the\nbuilding of the ship which was to carry Prince Winfred to their shores.\nAt length the vessel was finished, and she sailed away, the two\ncompanions watching her from the beach until her rosy flag and\nglittering figure-head were but specks in the distance. Then the Prince\nhanded Christabel into a boat that spread its silken sails to the\nbreeze, and they sailed along the coast.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"Art thou quite happy now, my gracious lord?\" asked Christabel.\n\n\"Ay, in good sooth, sweet lady. Have I not found solace in thy\ncompanionship? Do I not at length possess the white rose of friendship?\"\n\n\"My dear Prince, I am indeed thy true, though humble, friend for ever.\"\n\n\"For ever!\" sighed Ulric. \"Ah, Christabel, I was so sad before thou\ncamest. Thou hast saved me. I lived in doubt of honest friendship until\nnow.\"\n\nUlric gazed into her face. She took up her lute and sang to him, a song\nof youth and springtime.\n\nSome days afterwards the ship which bore Prince Winfred anchored off the\nRose Islands, and for the first time the two Princes met. Winfred, as\nbecame a son of the sea, was clothed in a garb of emerald tone,\nembroidered with shells. His cap was woven of strange sea-flowers. Great\nwas the rejoicing in the Rose Islands over the advent of Prince Winfred.\nAnd as time went by great was the happiness of Ulric, for now he had\nanother friend, a youth like unto himself.\n\nMonths passed, scarcely making a ripple on the sea of Time. The three\ncompanions basked in an eternal sunshine. Sometimes they sailed over the\nblue water, sometimes they sat among the flowers, while Winfred told\nthem tales of his life and home--of strange caverns along the coast, of\nyellow sand-dunes covered with sea-flowers, of moorlands where purple\nheather bloomed, of long days passed in fishing, of stress and storms,\nof a sea that was often stern and angry, with crested waves beating\nshoreward. Ulric would gaze at his guest in wonder, but Christabel's\neyes swam in a mist of tears, and when Winfred's hand touched hers she\nwould tremble. He gazed into her eyes, and understood their meaning. As\ntime went by Winfred grew silent, but each day he looked oftener at\nChristabel.\n\nThe roses withered, and bloomed again. Morning followed evening, hour\nsucceeded hour. One day, as Prince Ulric wandered in the forest, he came\nsuddenly upon his two friends. They did not see him, and he was\nspell-bound by the picture that met his gaze. Christabel was standing\nunder a rose-bush, her hair falling from beneath a crown of flowers, and\nat her feet knelt Winfred, with upturned wondrous eyes. They remained\nlong thus, in a blaze of sunlight from no earthly sun.\n\nUlric stole away, hurt to death. \"Alas! I have been deceived,\" he\nmoaned. \"This is friendship, but I have never known it. They have found\nit; but not I--not I!\"\n\nPrince Winfred sailed away to his own land, with the Lady Christabel and\nmany of the noblest members of the King's Court. Ulric would not\naccompany them. He preferred to be alone now that his companions had\nfailed to teach him the secret of that friendship, the existence of\nwhich he had discovered in the forest. Furthermore, neither Winfred nor\nChristabel were solicitous for Ulric to journey with them to the Sea\nIslands. They had latterly grown strangely oblivious of their host's\npresence. The young Prince, however, only blamed himself. He felt that\nhis was not a nature to inspire friendship, but he longed for the great\ngift more and more, until his life became almost unbearable. Seeking for\nthe white rose among the people of his father's realm, he saw that they\nwere only kind to him either through fear of his power or from motives\nof self-interest.\n\nOne day, as he rode through the kingdom attended by his pages, he came\nupon a garden where a young girl was gathering fruit. Ulric, thinking\nshe had not observed his approach, dismounted hastily, and throwing his\ndark cloak around him, entered the garden. The maiden was well pleased\nto see the youth, in whom she recognised her future King. She had used\nall her feminine arts to entertain her guest, when suddenly the Prince's\ncloak slipped from his shoulders, and he stood before her in all the\nradiance of his princely garments.\n\nFor a moment the maiden feigned surprise, and her companion observed a\nnew expression upon her face. He had almost guessed her thoughts before\nshe threw herself upon her knees, and said, \"Most gracious lord, prithee\ngive me some jewels like unto these which adorn thy doublet.\"\n\nUlric cast down his cap in sorrow, for he remembered that it had\nremained undisguised upon his head all through the interview. From the\nfirst the maiden must have guessed his high degree. It was revealed by\nthe royal badge of the pink rose, which glittered among its jewelled\nornaments.\n\n\"She only was good to me because I could be of use to her,\" mused the\nPrince, as he rode homewards. \"She flattered me and smiled upon me\nbecause I am supposed to be one of the lucky ones of the earth. Had I\nbeen a poor man's son it had been different.\"\n\nThe thought was an inspiration to him. Why should he not search for the\ndeathless rose, disguised, that none might seek his friendship falsely?\nThe idea haunted him. At length he discussed it with the King, who,\nseeing that the Prince was nearly desperate with grief, consented to his\nplan. Ulric dressed himself as a minstrel, and having received his\nfather's blessing, left the palace and rode through the territory of\nthe Rose Islands, opening his purse to the poor, and comforting the\nsorrowful with the strains of his lyre. As long as his supply of gold\nlasted he was well received; when it was gone his troubles commenced. He\nwas hungry, and none would give him to eat or to drink. Moreover, he had\ncrossed the sea, and had left the Islands of Summer behind him. The\nkingdom in which he was now travelling was a land of mist and storm. He\nrode bravely on, nevertheless. Often, when he asked for help at the\ncottagers' doors, they laughed at him, and the children beat him with\nsticks. Winter was severe in the land of mist and storm, and the Prince\nturned his horse's head southwards. After some days the character of the\nscenery changed. The climate became warm and sunny. One morning he led\nhis steed through the mazes of a great forest. It was springtime; the\nbirds were singing, the valleys were blue with wild hyacinths, and here\nand there Ulric came upon clusters of late primroses. Looking up, he\ncould scarcely see the sky, so thick was the tracery of foliage between\nhim and the heavens. They had no spring in the Rose Islands, no faint\ngreens, no tender buds, but always the full glory of summer, with its\nvivid colouring and its drowsy breath. He was so enchanted with the\nbeauty of this forest, the like of which he had never seen before, that\nfor awhile he had actually forgotten his quest, when suddenly, right in\nfront of him, he saw a beautiful youth. Small and delicately made, his\ndress was entirely fashioned of pink rose-leaves, and he had golden\nwings. The Prince stood amazed, the apparition was so sudden, there had\nnot been a sound; he rubbed his eyes, but the stranger did not vanish,\nhe was a reality.\n\n\"What dost thou here, son of a King?\" asked the youth.\n\nUlric was still more surprised at being recognised under a disguise that\nhad served him well so far; he could not speak for astonishment.\n\n\"Thou seekest the 'deathless rose of friendship,' is it not so?\" asked\nthe unknown.\n\n\"Ay, good sir. Perhaps thou canst aid me in my search?\"\n\n\"Fair Prince, I can indeed advise thee how to proceed. First of all, hie\nthee out of this forest with all speed.\"\n\n\"Why, good sir, methinks it is a lovely place. The air is softer here\nthan any I have known before, the birds sing sweeter songs, the flowers\nbreathe a rarer perfume; for the first time in my life I feel happy;\neverything is fresh and young, and full of hope.\"\n\n\"Ay, royal minstrel, many love my land. Beware, nevertheless, of\njourneying through it. It is enchanted; and if thou wouldst indeed\nfollow thy quest, hie thee from the shelter of its trees and from the\nscent of its flowers; but ere thou goest, I will tell thee what the word\n_friendship_ means. Friends should be as bells upon a hyacinth, fed with\nthe same rain, nourished by the same dew, warmed by the same sun, rocked\nby the same wind; equal, placid, and calm in their lives; above all,\nthey should possess the virtue of unselfishness. Self-interest is the\ndeath of friendship.\"\n\n\"Good sir, I have ever felt thus; and being of this mind, I threw off my\nhabit of a Prince and started in search of the great gift; but I have\nridden now for a whole year, and I find it not, neither have I met in\nall my travels any who possess this 'deathless rose.'\"\n\n\"Thou wast but a youth when thou didst leave thy father's palace; now\nthou art a man, and the King mourns thee as dead.\"\n\nWhen Ulric heard this he was greatly grieved, and at once resolved to\nreturn to the Rose Islands.\n\n\"Tell me, before we part, good my lord, hast any proof that this 'rose\nof friendship' exists?\"\n\nThen Ulric told him the story of Winfred and Christabel, and described\nthe scene which he had witnessed in the forest. The youth broke into\npeals of laughter, and the hues of his flower-dress became so vivid that\nthe Prince's eyes were dazzled. Presently the stranger, assuming a\nserious manner, said,--\n\n\"I will tell thee where the Fairy Friendship dwells. She is my twin\nsister. Thou shalt make one last attempt to find her. She holds her\nCourt in the clouds of the setting sun. Ere nightfall, go to the\nseashore, stretch forth thy hands to the garments of departing day, and\nsay, 'Good Fairy Friendship, bring me unto thy chambers of light. If\nthou canst say this with no thought of self, no longing for a friend\nbecause of the pleasure that friendship bestows, but with the same\nfeeling that the hyacinth bells have for each other, then a ladder will\nbe let down from the regions of the sunset, and Friendship will give\nthee her deathless rose, which is so rare, so scarce a blossom, so\nseldom possessed by man or woman, so precious beyond all things, that\nonce attained, it will be the most priceless flower in thy kingly\ncrown.\"\n\n\"I thank thee, from my heart,\" said Ulric.\n\n\"If thou wouldst succeed, leave this land of mine; it will not bring\nthee unto the courts of friendship. Give up thy quest, and I will show\nthee something that is far sweeter than friendship, and far easier to\nwin.\"\n\n\"Nay, fair youth, I will endeavour once more to find what I have so long\nsought in vain; but, before I bid thy beautiful country farewell, wilt\nthou tell me why the roses upon thy dress so far surpass those that\nbloom in my father's kingdom?\"\n\n\"Good Ulric, hast never heard of Love? Love, who comes to mortals\nwithout their knowledge, ay, without their asking; Love, whose voice is\nsweeter than the nightingale's; Love, who was born of God in the Garden\nof Eden, and was clothed with the deathless roses that bloomed there?\"\n\nHe did not wait for Ulric's answer, but vanished; and his laughter\nechoed through the forest like a peal of silver bells.\n\n\n                                   III.\n\nAt sunset the Prince stood upon the shore and stretched forth his hands\nheavenwards, uttering the words specified by Love. He never knew whether\nhis mind had not the selfless quality enjoined by the youth, or whether\nthe roses of friendship were all withered and dead; but the sunset and\nits glory was suddenly hidden from his sight by a veil of mist. When the\nmist cleared it was night. Ulric lay down upon the sand and wept, for\nhe knew that the gift for which he had sought so long was not for him.\n\nTowards morning he retraced his steps, hoping to meet the youth and to\ntell him how completely he had again failed in his quest; but he could\nnot find the way to the forest. About mid-day, however, he came upon a\nhedged-in garden surrounding a lonely villa. Through the maze of boughs\nand foliage the Prince could see a beautiful maiden. She was clad in\nwhite, and her only ornament was a white rose. Ulric had never beheld so\npure nor so lovely a maid. Hardly knowing what he did, he dismounted and\nleaped the hedge. When he was inside the garden he noticed that the\ntrees were white with bloom, and that the path glittered with the fallen\nblossoms. He saw, too, that no coloured flowers grew in the floral beds;\nthey were all white. As he gazed around, a silvery mist arose, and he\ncould see nothing excepting the maiden, until it seemed to him that the\nenclosure was filled with her image. Then the mist cleared; the spell\nwas broken, and he was alone.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe Prince was deeply sorry at having lost sight of the beautiful girl;\nmoreover, he hardly dared to seek her in the depths of the snowy garden.\nAn atmosphere of peace, which he feared to disturb, seemed to brood over\nthe place. Before leaving the maiden's home he plucked a rose, as a\nmemento of the fair vision he had seen; but to his surprise it was\nentirely without perfume. As he examined it, wondering at the strange\nphenomenon, some one addressed him from outside the hedge. Looking up,\nhe recognised the youth with whom he had conversed in the forest. Ulric\nhurried towards him, with a cry of joy.\n\n\"That scentless bloom is not the rose of friendship, fair Prince,\" said\nthe youth, taking the flower from Ulric's hand.\n\n\"Thou sayest true; I have not yet found it. Nevertheless, methinks I am\non the right path. Hope stirs in my heart and whispers 'Courage!' But\nnow, I saw a maiden here, beautiful as an angel. If I only dare seek her\nyonder, my soul tells me that I may discover in her the deathless rose\nfor which I long.\"\n\n\"Then go, thou King's son. Most like thou art right. Seek her.\"\n\n\"Wilt thou not go too, good youth? In all my travels I have never known\nfear until now; and yet here, in this land of white flowers and whiter\nmists, Hope's gentle spur notwithstanding, I am overawed, I dare not\nventure.\"\n\n\"Ah, my Prince! if thou wilt find what thou desirest thou must be brave,\nand advance with faith and courage. I cannot lead thee, neither can I\nfollow thee; but yonder the edge of this garden joins my land, the\nforest where I met thee yesterday. If thou findest not the maiden, seek\nme there. Farewell. See,\" he added, \"see how sudden red thy white rose\nhath blushed!\"\n\nAnd vanishing, he dropped Ulric's rose at the Prince's feet. It was of a\nbrilliant red, and gave forth a strangely powerful perfume.\n\nNotwithstanding the encouragement of his unknown preceptor, the Prince\nwould never have ventured far along the glittering path. The Fates\nseemed to check his progress. If the maiden, whom his heart prompted him\nto seek, had not left her bower to meet him, his quest, even so near\nupon success, might yet have ended in disappointment. But with gracious\nstep the maid approached, and, holding forth her hand quite simply,\nherself led him through the garden.\n\nUlric walked on, looking into her eyes. His heart beat, and the\nflower-strewn way seemed to melt from beneath his feet.\n\n\"Good minstrel, who art thou?\" asked the maiden.\n\n\"I am thy devoted servant,\" murmured the Prince. \"Prithee, tell me thy\nname, gracious lady?\"\n\n\"I am called Innocent, and I am the Princess of the Garden of\nInnocence.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"Is this the Garden of Innocence?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Is that the reason why the flowers are all white and scentless here?\"\n\n\"Are they ever different, fair sir?\" she asked wonderingly.\n\n\"In my land, sweet maiden, they are red, pink, purple, gold, and of\nevery colour. But now, I had one of your own white roses which had\nchanged to red.\"\n\nThe Princess looked at Ulric in amazement as he searched for his rose.\nThere it lay at his feet; but it had again become as white and as\nscentless as all the other flowers in the garden. The Prince was sorely\npuzzled. Had he only dreamed that the rose had changed to red in the\nyouth's hands?\n\nThey walked on in silence for many a long hour, their eyes meeting in a\nsympathy too great for words.\n\n\"At last,\" thought the Prince, \"I have found the 'white rose of\nfriendship,' the leaves whereof are immortal. I shall never part from\nit; it will be with me all my life, great, sacrificing, eternal\nfriendship, straight from God.\"\n\nHe told Innocent of his grief, and of the bitter troubles that he had\nencountered in his search.\n\n\"Poor minstrel!\" she said softly. \"Be happy now, for thy sorrow is\nended. I feel this deathless friendship for thee.\"\n\n\"God be thanked, that my quest is crowned with success; but since thou\nart my true friend, since thou art noble enough to hold me dear, though\nin thy eyes I seem but a poor beggar, know that I am the Prince of the\nRose Islands, which yield the many-coloured flowers I have told thee\nof.\"\n\n\"Good my lord, that does not make thee more precious to me. Wert thou\npoor and despised, hated of all the world, weary and sick unto death, I\ncould but hold thee more dear. Didst thou ask me for my life, I could\nbut lay it willingly at thy feet.\"\n\nTears stole down her cheeks, and she looked up at Ulric with eyes of\ndoglike fidelity.\n\n\"Ah, this is friendship!\" sighed the Prince; \"this is what Christabel\nand Winfred discovered in the forest. Come, sweet Innocent, I will take\nthee to the King, my father, and show him the 'deathless rose.'\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAs Ulric finished speaking, he folded her in his arms and kissed her.\nThe air was suddenly filled with ringing peals of laughter, and on the\npath, close to them, stood the youth who had not dared to venture inside\nthe garden but a few hours before. Why had he come into the depths of\nthe white country now? He waved his arms, and all the flowers changed to\na brilliant red. Innocent's white rose fell from her hair, and in its\nplace lay a crimson bloom, the wondrous perfume of which ascended like\nincense heavenwards.\n\n\"Fair Prince, thy search is fruitless,\" chanted the youth, in low\npenetrating tones. \"Thou hast indeed found a rose which is deathless;\nbut it is the sweet red rose of Love.\"\n\n\n\n\n                             A CHRISTMAS-ROSE\n\n[Illustration: A CHRISTMAS-ROSE]\n\n  \"Small service is true service while it lasts\n  Of friends, however humble, scorn not one\n  The daisy by the shadow that it casts\n  Protects a lingering dew-drop from the sun.\"\n                                       -WORDSWORTH-\n\n\nI.\n\nIt was in a desolate London lodging-house that Marietta's courage gave\nway. In Italy she could live and be merry on the most frugal fare. A\nlittle polenta, a handful of grapes, and a piece of bread sufficed for a\ngood meal. Not so in London; nor were there grapes or polenta even if\nshe desired nothing else. The poor little heart needed nourishment\nagainst the gloom and harass of the great dull city. So she laid her\nhead upon her brother's breast in a fit of despair and wept bitterly.\n\nMarietta was seventeen. She had only arrived in England at the end of\nNovember. It was now nigh upon Christmas. Her brother Rica had lived in\nLondon over a year. He had been engaged by a great artist to sit to him\nas a model, and to no other.\n\nRica had saved every penny, being content with the bare necessities of\nlife, so that Marietta might go and stay with him for a few months\nbefore she commenced her novitiate, prior to taking the veil at the\nconvent where she had been educated. The nuns had adopted her when the\nchildren became orphans, and as time passed she had grown to long for\nthe day which should make her one of the black-robed sisters of the\nVisitation. Unfortunately, a little time after Marietta's arrival in\nEngland, Rica's master had suddenly died, and the two children were left\nfriendless and almost penniless in the great city.\n\nIt was Christmas Eve. The snow lay thick upon the ground. There was\nneither fire on the hearth nor bread in the cupboard, and the night was\nbitterly cold.\n\nRica smoothed away the dark hair from his sister's face and tried to\ncomfort her. He could endure want and misery much better than she could.\nThe beautiful face had become delicately _spirituelle_ through the\nrigour of privation.\n\n\"Dearest Marietta, I will go and beg some food for you; don't cry any\nmore.\"\n\n\"Oh, I shall die in this gloomy place! Take me back to the kind\nsisters!\" she moaned, giving way to hysterical sobs.\n\n\"Have patience, we shall return to Italy some day; but believe me, when\nonce winter goes, England is not such a dreadful country. In summer it\nis beautiful, and the flowers compare well with those at home.\"\n\n\"Flowers! I don't believe there are any here, not at least in this cruel\ncity, with its yellow fogs and its sunless abodes.\"\n\nRica sighed deeply as he kissed her, and turned to go out into the snowy\nnight. It grieved him to see Marietta utterly broken down. She had\nfailed in her first trial. But then, she was so beautiful, she ought to\nhave been a princess instead of the daughter of a poor fisherman. It was\nall a mistake.\n\n\nII.\n\nIn the garden of a house that was inscribed \"To Let\" there grew a sad\nand solitary Christmas Rose, that lifted up pathetic complaint to the\nleaden sky.\n\nNight heard her, and went to comfort her. He was enchanted with her\nbeauty, and she lifted her face to receive his soft caresses.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"Sweet flower,\" he murmured, \"have you forgotten that it is still\nwinter? Why do you bloom in this dreary garden while the snow yet covers\nthe ground?\"\n\n\"I am a Christmas Rose, and I blossom on the eve of Jesus' birthday. I\nwas planted a year ago by the people who dwelt here; they left soon\nafterwards. No human eyes have ever gazed on my face, and yet my heart\nis full of love for them. A Christmas Rose, I long to help them, to give\nmy life in their service, as did my Infant Master,\" she said, as a\nmelted drop of snow ran down the white petals into her heart.\n\n\"Do not grieve,\" whispered Night, rocking her in his arms; \"but learn to\nrest all through the winter and be a Summer Rose.\"\n\n\"Ah! my only charm is that I bloom when June's flowers are sleeping;\nbesides, I should lose my birthright, my dedication to the Child Jesus,\nif I did as you advise.\"\n\n\"Remain then as you are, sweet one. It is midnight. I must proclaim the\ngracious news of the coming of Christ. When His birthday wanes I will\nvisit you again.\"\n\nHe kissed her tenderly, and there was a lull in his song as he gathered\nhis strength, spread his mighty wings, and took flight.\n\nThe flower was lonelier than before, now that her friend had departed.\nDaylight came. The bells rang out their old story of peace and gladness.\nChildren passed, some with sprigs of holly in their coats.\n\nThere was a summons at the gate in the garden of the next house; a voice\nsaid, \"A Merry Christmas,\" and another answered, \"God bless you to-day\nand always!\"\n\n\"Ah, if human lips would say that to me!\" thought the flower. \"If I\ncould only bring a little joy into a human life!\" Her heart ached, for\nshe knew that she would die when the clocks tolled midnight, announcing\nthat Christ's birthday had passed away.\n\nWhat was that? Are stars visible in the daytime? A little brown face was\npressed against the railings, and two brilliant eyes gazed at her. It\nwas a boy dressed in ragged velveteen breeches, and thin discoloured\nshirt. Curls of black hair surrounded his face. He climbed over the\nrailings, knelt down on the sodden grass, and gazed at the Christmas\nRose.\n\n\"Ah!\" thought Rica, \"at last, here is something to remind Marietta of\nItaly, although this fair blossom breathing here in a London garden is\nfar sweeter than Italy's flowers. It must be the Infant Jesus' rose\nwhich blooms on His birthday.\" His brown fingers closed round the stalk,\nand the flower felt a thrill of joy as he plucked her; but all the\nleaves bowed to the ground, and rent the air with sad moans.\n\nRica carried the Christmas Rose far away from her birthplace, past the\nPark, through the slushy streets, on--on--until the character of the\nhouses changed. Everything grew gradually sordid. Drunken men reeled\nagainst each other, and ill-clad children played about at the mouths of\nfoul alleys.\n\nThe Christmas Rose clung tighter to the little brown hand, and drew\ncomfort from the tender grasp. As Rica turned the corner of the street\nwhich led to his wretched home he ran against an artist who was\nsketching some crazy old houses.\n\n\"Mind where you are going, my boy! Why! What a beautiful Christmas Rose!\nHow much do you want for it?\" he asked, looking at the flower, and not\nnoticing Rica's handsome face.\n\n\"I cannot part with it, sir. It is for my sister. She only came from\nItaly in November, and she has been fretting so because we are in\ntrouble. I think that this beautiful flower may comfort her.\"\n\nEdward Thornhill was touched, and as he looked into the boy's face he\nwas almost startled by its beauty. It belonged to the sunny skies of\nItaly, with its brilliant eyes, olive skin, luxuriant hair, and red\nlips. As he scanned the little Italian's countenance, he also remarked\nhis poverty, and placing his hand on Rica's shoulder he asked,--\n\n\"Are you very poor, my child?\"\n\n\"Oh, sir, we are starving! I don't care for myself, but for my sister.\nShe is beautiful; and she can't stand misery. I am sure God did not mean\nher to suffer; it's all a mistake,\" cried the boy, breaking down under\nthe kind glance and the sympathetic words.\n\n\"I seem to know your face,\" said the artist. \"Why, of course I do; you\nwere poor Godfrey's model?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I had been in his studio a year when he died. I served him\nentirely, and now that he is gone I am quite friendless.\"\n\n\"Does your sister sit?\"\n\n\"Not hitherto, sir. She has not thought of it. Nor have I told her how\nshe might perhaps obtain employment, even easier than I, because I\nsomehow felt that the nuns to whom she owes everything might not like\nit.\"\n\n\"Did they say they would object?\"\n\n\"Not in words; but, you see, Marietta has promised to return in May. She\ncame to London to say good-bye to me. I was able to send her money for\nher passage, being well provided by Mr. Godfrey. She is to take the veil\nsoon after her return, and then, you know, I lose her altogether.\"\n\n\"You don't like that?\"\n\n\"She will be taken care of,\" the boy replied, \"and she desires to\ndedicate her life to God, so you see I must be content.\"\n\n\"Poor little chap! But I can help you in your present need. Let the\nChristmas Rose be a harbinger of joy to both of you. Give it to your\nsister, and bring her to this address within an hour. You shall have\nfood and warmth, anyhow, and I will help you further.\"\n\nRica sped up the court to their miserable quarters. Marietta was\nwatching anxiously for him at the window. He had been out all night, and\nshe was almost in despair.\n\n\"Look, dearest, isn't it lovely?\" he cried, as he rushed into the room\nand held up the Christmas Rose for her to see.\n\nShe took it in her thin fingers, and her eyes dwelt on its beauty until\nthey filled with tears, which dropped on the rose's face and sank into\nher grateful heart.\n\n\"How exquisite, Rica! The Infant Jesus must have brought it from\nheaven.\"\n\nThen her face gradually lost its transient glow, and in a fit of despair\nshe threw the flower on the ground, and cried,--\n\n\"But it cannot help us; of what good is it? I thought you went out to\nbeg bread.\"\n\n\"Ah, Marietta! don't scorn it; be grateful all your life that I found\nthe Christmas Rose. It has saved us!\"\n\nOn hearing her brother's story she was overjoyed. She picked up the\ntrembling flower, and hastily covering her head with a shawl, prepared\nto accompany Rica.\n\nOn the presentation of Thornhill's card they were shown into his studio.\n\nThe Christmas Rose thought she was in Fairyland. The room was decorated\nwith festoons of evergreens, wreaths of holly, and bunches of mistletoe.\nOn the platform was a small Christmas tree hung with sweets, crackers,\nsilver ornaments, and coloured beads, surmounted by a fairy doll dressed\nin white and studded with silver stars. Marietta stood gazing round the\nstudio, holding the trembling Rose in her hand. But what was this? The\nFairy Prince off the tree come to life? They had never seen anything so\nfair before. A boy had risen from a seat by the stove, where he had been\namusing himself with a picture book. A slim little fellow, with dreamy,\nhazel eyes set in a pale spiritual face, and what wonderful hair. It was\nlike golden sunbeams. Angel was the artist's son. His mother had died\ntwo years ago. He was just six years old, a sweet, delicate child.\nOften he was very lonely, for his father was frequently away, and he was\nnot strong enough to go to school.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nHow much he missed his mother, and how the memory of her dwelt in his\nyoung soul, even his father scarcely guessed. At night he cried himself\nto sleep thinking of her, and wondering where she was. It had occurred\nto the child that she had not been very happy, and that his father did\nnot love her as he did.\n\n\"I have been watching for you,\" said Angel, putting out his small hand.\n\"Oh, what a pretty flower! I have never seen one like it before.\"\n\n\"It is a Christmas Rose, dear,\" said Thornhill, who had entered as the\nboy spoke.\n\nMarietta placed it in his hair. He looked at her gravely, and then held\nup his face to be kissed.\n\nThe Christmas Rose nearly swooned with joy, for she thought that Angel\nwas the Infant Jesus; and as she was set in the place of honour amongst\nthat golden glory, her heart throbbed with gratitude.\n\nEdward Thornhill had been accustomed to the society of pretty women all\nhis life; but in the presence of this convent girl he was absolutely\nnervous. Her beauty fascinated him. He longed to take his brush, to\nportray that face on canvas.\n\nMarietta was shy to a fault, and it was a long time before he could get\nanything excepting monosyllables from her in conversation.\n\nChristmas dinner was served in another part of the studio. It was not a\nvery grand one. The absence of a woman's hand in the household\narrangements had been keenly felt by the artist since his wife's death.\nBut there was a piece of roast beef and a plum-pudding, with dates,\napples, and oranges to follow. The two Italians had eaten nothing but a\nlittle bread for two days, so to them it was a feast for the Gods.\n\nLater the tree was stripped of its ornaments. Angel pressed nearly all\nthe presents on Rica. He was a kind-hearted little fellow, and very\nunselfish.\n\n\"And so you are going to be a nun, my child?\" said the artist, when by\nsympathetic questioning he had elicited Marietta's story.\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Do you think you will be happy?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nThere was a slight hesitation in her manner. And yet, when she had\nentered the studio only two hours ago, she had resolved to ask Edward\nThornhill to lend her enough money to pay her fare back to the convent,\nso that she could begin her novitiate at once.\n\n\"Your mind is quite made up, nothing could change it?\"\n\n\"I think not.\"\n\nHow quickly her listener detected the little tremor in her voice, which\ntold him much more than the uncertainty implied in her words.\n\n\"And yet I believe you might be happy here. I can help you both; you\nshall not want for work. Your brother tells me that you have never been\na model, but perhaps you would be kind enough to favour me by sitting\nfor my Academy picture. The subject is to be the Annunciation.\"\n\nShe did not answer, and he continued talking,--\n\n\"You must remember that the city is not always as gloomy as it looks\nto-night. We have picture galleries, parks and squares, and the country\nis beautiful at all seasons. Do you not think you could be content to\nstay a little?\"\n\n\"Perhaps a little.\"\n\n\"I will get you some needlework to do, and Rica shall find in me as good\na master as the one he has just lost.\n\n\"You are very kind,\" she said, looking up at him with tearful eyes.\n\n\"The nuns won't be angry with you for staying a little while with your\nbrother; they will consent to receive you later, will they not?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"And will you sit for my picture?\"\n\n\"Yes, as soon as you wish.\"\n\nBefore Marietta left she kissed the Christmas Rose, and whispered, \"Dear\nInfant Jesus, guard the flower which has saved us.\"\n\nAnd it murmured:--\n\n\"I am happy. My Master is pleased that I have followed in His footsteps,\nand His reward is beyond all price.\"\n\nBut Marietta did not hear.\n\nBefore Angel went to rest he placed the Christmas Rose in a goblet of\nwater, and it lifted up its innocent face and breathed a sweet, faint\nperfume. The hours flew by, and towards midnight a curious pink hue\nstole over its white petals, the fragrance died away, the luxuriant stem\nwithered up, and it breathed its last as Christ's birthday passed away.\n\nThe star of Bethlehem was alone in the heavens when Night visited the\ngarden to greet the beauteous flower of the morning, but it had\nvanished. In its place was a tear which sparkled like a diamond, the\ntear it had shed when yearning to help suffering humanity.\n\n\nIII.\n\nFour months afterwards Marietta received a letter from the superior of\nher convent. She sat reading it in a clean and comfortably furnished\nroom. Though to all appearances perfectly happy, her face wore an\nexpression of sadness, and tears fell on the missive in her hand.\n\nAt length she rose, placed the letter in the pocket of her gown, and\nafter packing up a costume she had just finished making for Edward\nThornhill, made her way to his studio.\n\nHe praised her work. He had never found anybody so clever at carrying\nout suggestions as Marietta; but to-day his commendation brought no\npleasure into her face, and the artist was quick to notice her changed\nmanner.\n\n\"You are sad, Marietta?\"\n\n\"No,\" she answered hastily, turning to leave the studio.\n\n\"Why no, when you mean yes?\" he asked, following her.\n\nShe did not reply, but the tears gathered in her eyes and fell upon her\ndress.\n\n\"Tell me what grieves you. I helped you once, and may be able to do so\nagain.\"\n\nShe took the Reverend Mother's letter from her pocket and placed it in\nhis hand. It contained a few lines, saying that they would expect their\nchild back in a fortnight's time.\n\n\"Then you are going to leave us after all?\"\n\n\"It is better so.\"\n\n\"But it makes you sad the thought of going?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, with downcast face.\n\n\"The sisters would not wish you to take the veil if you or they doubted\nyour vocation for such a surrender?\"\n\n\"I don't understand.\"\n\n\"Your heart must be in this sacrament, your whole heart, you must have\nno longings after the world. Is it not so?\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" she said, her voice trembling, tears in her eyes.\n\n\"Have you any longings that might be a shadow on your nun's life, my\nchild? Have you? Nay, don't be afraid to speak.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't ask me,\" she said, repressing her sobs.\n\n\"You do not think your life here involves a sin? You have enabled me to\npaint a heavenly image that might, so far as the pure spirit of it goes,\ndecorate the fairest church. I do not say the work, Marietta, but the\nintention, the inspiration.\"\n\nShe found this question too subtle for her comprehension, but there was\nsomething in the artist's tone and manner that thrilled her, something\nthat was like the influence of the _Magnificat_ in the great choir of\nthe cathedral. She turned her wondering eyes towards him, and he took\nher hands in his.\n\n\"You have been happy here?\" he asked, his voice trembling.\n\n\"Yes, very.\"\n\n\"Then why leave me? Put up with the gloom and fog for my sake, Marietta.\nBe the artist's little wife as well as his model.\"\n\nThe sun came streaming into the studio as he bent over her fair hands\nand kissed them.\n\n\"It is not all gloom and fog,\" she replied. \"To-day the London sun is as\nbright and warm as it was in Italy when I was a child.\"\n\nIt was not alone the London sun, it was the sunshine of the heart; and\nit lasted all through the remainder of Marietta's life.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE WINDFLOWER\n\n[Illustration: THE WINDFLOWER]\n\n  \"One.will.crown.thee.king\n  Far.in.the.spiritual.city\"\n                       Lord Tennyson\n\n\nI.\n\nLady Mercy sat writing of love in the early hours of morning. She had\nbeen christened Mercy, but the people called her the \"Windflower.\" She\nwas born in a high March wind, which had once more wooed her sisters\ninto life. They lay like a fall of snow in the adjacent forests.\n\nAs the girl grew the title of the \"Windflower\" suited more and more her\nlong fair hair and clear grey eyes.\n\nShe had never known any home beyond this beautiful palace. Here, in the\nheart of a pastoral country, the birds sang and the flowers bloomed all\nthrough the year. It was a haven of peace, of glorious morning dawns and\nwind-swept evening skies.\n\nHer mother, the widowed Countess, wished to keep her among the flowers\nand meadows, and she had reached her seventeenth summer without ever\nhaving been in a city. She had, indeed, many learned teachers, and had\nheard and read of the great world which lay beyond the hills surrounding\nher home, but had no longing in her heart to go there. She found hosts\nof friends in nature--the flowers, birds, dogs, horses, golden fish in\nthe fountain, and the sun; but most of all the wind. It seemed as though\nthe poetic title, given to her by the good people of the village, had\nalready exercised an influence upon her life. She loved the wind,\nwhether he came from the icefields of the north or the sun-plains of the\nequator, whether his breath were redolent of western seas or of spices\nand Arabian perfumes.\n\nTo feel his kisses on her face, to have him whirl her round in his\nstrength, to bend before his mighty wings as did her sisters, the\nWindflowers, this was her delight. Her play hours were passed in\ndreamland peopled with her own mystical creations. What should she know\nof love? She was, indeed, an utter stranger to it, and yet she wrote of\nlove, and called her hero \"Terah.\"\n\nBut the time had come when the Countess thought her daughter ought to\nbegin to realise that the great world was not an ideal one like that of\nher dreams.\n\n\"Mercy,\" she said, \"why do you always write of 'Terah' as you call him?\nHe seems to be the hero of all your stories, and he is quite impossible.\nYou must not imagine that people in the great world are as lovely in\ntheir lives as your flowers are. 'Terah' is an ideal.\"\n\n\"An ideal?\"\n\n\"Yes, there is no such man.\"\n\n\"In what way is he not true?\" asked the girl, her eyes full of wonder.\n\n\"Describe him again, and I will explain.\"\n\n\"His name speaks for him; it means that he was a breather of good like\nthe wind, only he was always gentle. Then he drove away sorrow. He was a\ncomforter; his face was most beautiful; he was all mercy, all love; and\nhe had thought of others so much that self was quite dead in him. Is\nthat impossible in that wide world yonder?\"\n\nThe Countess sighed as she answered, \"Do not make him so handsome,\nMercy, and then perhaps he will be a more probable character, the man\nenriched by Providence with perfect beauty such as your hero cannot help\nbeing self-imbued. It is the old story of Narcissus, every glass greets\nhim with the picture he likes best to see; even the eyes of the woman he\nloves are dimmed by the reflection of his image.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\nMonths passed, and a great change was noticed in Lady Mercy. She grew\npaler and paler; she wrote no more stories; and all her studies were\nstopped. She rose very early, and walked miles in the woods and by the\nriver, as if seeking for something. The \"Windflower\" seemed to have been\nbruised by a rough tempest.\n\nA renowned doctor came from the metropolis and pressed her to say what\nailed her.\n\n\"I am looking for 'Terah.' Mother said he was an ideal, merely the\ncreature of my brain, and since then I have lost him,\" she moaned. \"Ask\nher to take me to the great city that I may seek him, for I think he has\ngone there to prove that he is true.\"\n\nAnd so the \"Windflower\" was uprooted from among her kith and kin. She\njourneyed to the distant town, past the river and over the hills.\n\nAnd all was changed. She was thrust into the world of fashion. Dressed\nin costly silks with long flowing trains, her hair was not allowed to\nhang loosely over her shoulders any more. She was \"out,\" so it was\ndressed high on her head by a French _coiffeur_. She was forbidden to\nwalk unattended in the great city. Even in the parks she was always\naccompanied by a chaperon. It was not correct to be seen alone, and\ncomfort and freedom had to be sacrificed.\n\n\nII.\n\nSociety made much of the ethereal-looking girl. Society took to her\ntitle of the \"Windflower\"; it was so romantic, so \"old world.\" She went\nfor rides in the Row, drove in the Park, visited the opera and theatres,\nwas present at evening receptions, and at ladies' \"tea and scandal\"\nparties--weak tea and strong scandal. Here she learned to fear her own\nsex.\n\nShe was presented at Court in a low dress on a foggy afternoon; she went\neverywhere in a sort of dream seeking her ideal, but she found no trace\nof \"Terah,\" the breather of good; and as time passed she grew sick at\nheart, seeing on all hands the lust of self. Men battled for their idol\neverywhere, women bartered away their souls to crown self with a diadem\nof gold.\n\nPresently she was permitted to go about unattended, a freedom that\ninspired her with new hopes. She went down to the busy part of the city\nand stood in the surging crowd that battled for life. The \"Windflower\"\nwas alone in a world of anxious men whose all-consuming passion was\nself. Time was precious. All was hurry. Everybody had business on hand;\neven at luncheon they seemed to be racing. Not a minute was to be lost;\nhesitate but for an instant, and they were pushed aside, the great race\nof self against self, pursuing its course without them. A few attained\nthe goal, but many were stricken down by the way. Those who reached it\nbowed their heads to the ground and worshipped at the glittering shrine\nwhere Gold and Self were throned kings of the human heart.\n\nHer quest seemed to be failing entirely. Among the poor, who learned to\nlove her, she now and then found a trace of her lost \"Terah,\" but it was\nonly a straggling ray of light in a nightmare of darkness and sin.\n\nOne night she was present at a great ball given in her honour by an\nintimate friend of the Countess.\n\nThe room was filled with sweet perfumes, the mantel-pieces heaped with\nlilies of the valley and white lilacs. All the wealth of spring flowers\nlay fainting in the hot atmosphere. Not a drop of water to cool them,\nnot a breath of air to ease their pain. The band shrieked out its cheap\nmelodies, the dancers danced beneath the glare of electric lights. The\nfashionable throng enjoyed itself. But one out of its number felt as\nweary as the flowers. Dressed in clinging folds of soft satin, her hair\nwas arranged low in her neck, and in her hand she held a few loose\nroses. She looked like a garden lily which had strayed from its home,\nand grieved to find that it had exchanged the evening air and the\nsilence of the night for the glare of electric globes, the heat of a\ncrowded room, and the hubbub of countless voices.\n\n\"And so you do not like society?\" said her partner, a young fellow whom\nshe had often met before, and whom she greatly interested.\n\n\"From what I know of it I do not. I think, too, that people who live in\ncities are cruel. Look at the poor lilacs and lilies massed together to\nfaint and die. In my home we never think of letting flowers remain\nwithout water. We look upon them as living things. Every blossom has a\nlife of its own; it knows pain and thirst. When I see them, torn from\nhedge and meadow by careless hands and thrown on to the roads to die in\nthe dust, I know that for each flower an angel weeps.\"\n\n\"Do not talk of things that make you sad. I want you to be happy\nto-night. You are enjoying yourself, are you not?\" the young fellow\ninquired wistfully. Dangerous question to ask the grave idealist, but he\nhad taken a great fancy to her, he sympathised with many of her\nfeelings. \"If you cannot say that you are enjoying yourself, please\nleave my question unanswered,\" he added hastily.\n\nLady Mercy looked up in surprise, then partly comprehending his words,\nshe said,--\n\n\"I like to talk with you; but I have had to converse with so many others\nwho have nothing to say that I am weary--men who asked me whether I had\nseen this or that play, if I had been on the great wheel, did I approve\nof bicycling for women? Had I tried golfing? And then, having finished\ntheir stock of small talk, they taxed their poor ingenuity to pay me\ncompliments.\"\n\n\"I am not surprised,\" was the grave reply.\n\n\"Oh! I wish you had not said that. Why should a man seek to flatter a\nwoman; in short, to insult her?\"\n\n\"I would not offend you for the world!\" he cried. \"Indeed I am sorry.\"\n\n\"And I am grieved to have spoken bitterly. Pardon me, I do not know how\nto talk even to you, and everything is so strange,\" she said, flushing\ndeeply.\n\n\"Tell me of what you like most yourself; that will interest me beyond\nall other subjects.\"\n\n\"I cannot speak of that,\" she answered, a gentle light playing on her\nface. \"I can only think about it. The remembrance of it is rooted in my\nheart; it is a part of me.\"\n\n\"Mercy,\" he cried, his face flushing and his eyes becoming strangely\nbrilliant, \"the Countess has told me of your dream, of your search for\nsome one who has never existed. Ah! give it up. Do you not know that\nthe bitterest chapter in the book of life is that which is headed\n'Broken Ideals'? The pages are written in blood, they are blistered with\ntears. The reader must decipher that chapter alone, the shattered\nremains of what was once his divinity, his sunshine feeding on his\nheart, and poisoning even his memory.\"\n\n\"But humanity should not let its ideals be broken. It should fight for\nthem, lock them safe in the inmost chamber of its mind. It should never\nsuffer a profane hand to destroy that which is dearer than itself,\" she\nanswered, with a fixed, far-away look in her eyes.\n\n\"Ah, my dear Mercy, believe me, should you appear to find he whom you\nseek, you will but dream, and then awake to learn that your young, fresh\nlife has been wasted, and that your Ideal is false. Then age will be\npassed in useless longing and vain regrets.\"\n\n\"I shall find him. I did know him once, and he left me, but he will come\nback again.\" Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked so spiritual, so\nbeautiful, that her companion could contain himself no longer.\n\n\"Mercy, I love you!\" he whispered.\n\nThe breathless words brought her back from dreamland, with its mists and\nits dim beauties--back to a London ballroom, back to fading humanity\nand faded flowers. The utter weariness and cheapness of it all struck\nher painfully, the passionate cry of love associated itself in her mind\nwith the rustle and frippery of fashion.\n\n\"My life is his of whom we have spoken,\" she said gently in response to\nhis beseeching glance, as her hostess, a bright, fashionable woman,\nhurried up and whispered effusively: \"Wait here a moment, dear. I have\nat last found some one whom I am sure will please you. He is very rich\nand handsome, quite a king in the world of fashion, and yet a Christian\ngentleman--and oh, so wise! We call him our Ideal.\"\n\nShe came back accompanied by a tall, fine man. Everybody thought him\nbeautiful--\"pure Greek, you know\"; but Lady Mercy started back in\nterror, recovering herself the next minute. To her he was hideous--his\nmouth misshapen, his eyes a dull red. Was it because her own soul was so\npure that she saw people's minds, not their faces, and when a mind was\nevil its chief vice shone through its fleshly covering like a beacon?\n\n\"Delighted to meet you, Lady Mercy; will you dance?\"\n\n\"No, thank you.\"\n\n\"We will sit it out, then, and talk. By the way, our mutual friend, Lady\nR----, tells me that you are much distressed over the condition of the\nunemployed in our great city?\"\n\n\"Yes, I want mother to devise a scheme for helping them. I have seen so\nmuch suffering since I have been here.\"\n\n\"Money thrown away, I assure you; they are a rascally set. If a man is\nwilling to work there is work to be had.\"\n\n\"I disagree, sir; work is most difficult to obtain. A character is\nneeded. Many of these poor, suffering creatures have no recommendation\nthat might entitle them to recognition at the hands of Christ's\nfollowers. And most of them are not in a condition to work. They have\nneither clothes, nor health, nor hope. Could you build with your feet\nthrough your boots? Could you lift heavy weights with no strength in\nyour body and no hope in your soul?\"\n\n\"You forget I am not one of the unemployed,\" he said, smiling.\n\n\"No? What do you do then?\"\n\n\"Well, I do not exactly do anything.\"\n\n\"Then you are unemployed.\"\n\n\"I have no regular work; but I try to follow in Christ's steps. I am a\nChristian like yourself. I believe that He was God, and worship Him as\nsuch.\"\n\n\"Sir, I fear His would have been a poor, useless martyrdom if you were\nindeed a Christian. Go home and read His life; see what He says about\nthe poor whom you despise. There, forgive me, I did not mean to say so\nmuch. But I think you are in the wrong. Good-night.\"\n\n\"What an awful girl you introduced me to, Lady R----! She was positively\ninsulting; a regular windbag, not a flower.\"\n\n\"Didn't it make any impression? Poor Popsie,\" she replied, patting him\nwith her fan, \"I hoped she would interest you; she is in search of the\nIdeal. What a pity she did not recognise you! Never mind, I will\nintroduce you to Baby Joy, the music-hall singer who married Lord Clare.\nYou know? Come along.\"\n\n\nIII.\n\nYears passed. Lady Mercy's first youth was over; her eyes had lost the\nlight of hope--a wild, sorrowful expression filled them. She had never\ngone back to the country; she could not return to the happy home of her\nchildish ideals, the joyless, broken-hearted creature she was now.\n\nShe drove out one day in September. Gaily dressed women were shopping.\nFlower stalls of roses, carnations, marguerites, gave a foreign look to\nthe city. A wild west wind, fragrant with the breath of autumn, rushed\nthrough the streets.\n\nSuddenly there was some confusion in the road. A policeman battled among\na host of prancing horses and grand carriages. A victoria containing two\ngorgeously dressed ladies had run over a mongrel dog. One of its owners,\na ragged girl, sobbed on the pavement, as her half-starved brother\nelbowed his way to the officer's side.\n\n\"Our paw Jack; 'is leg's broke.\"\n\n\"You should not let him run about in crowded streets,\" said one of the\nsmart occupants of the victoria.\n\n\"End yer shouldn't let yer cussed 'osses droive over the paw beast,\"\nreplied the boy, taking it in his arms and trying to soothe its cries.\n\n\"I was going to give you money, boy, but I shall not for your\nimpertinence.\"\n\nLady Mercy stood on the pavement comforting the little girl.\n\n\"Never moind, Puddles,\" said her brother, coming up with the dog in his\narms. \"Our Prince will cure 'im.\"\n\n\"Prince is doying, brother, you know thet.\"\n\n\"Who is Prince, my boy?\" asked Lady Mercy.\n\n\"'E's our only friend. 'E's father and mother to all hus poor.\"\n\n\"Is he beautiful?\" she asked eagerly.\n\n\"What, in the faice? Rather not.\"\n\n\"Ah! then it cannot be he,\" said Lady Mercy sadly. \"Why do you call him\nPrince?\"\n\n\"Becos 'e is Prince--the Prince of Pity. 'E's ill now; but 'e says 'e\ncan't doi till something 'appens.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Oi der know. Somethink.\"\n\n\"Where does he live?\"\n\n\"Hover there,\" said the boy, with a vague wave of his hand.\n\n\"I will take you there if you will let me. Will you get into the\ncarriage?\"\n\n\"What, in there?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Rather. Come on, Puddles.\"\n\nLady Mercy helped the two forlorn creatures into her carriage, and\nplaced the dog tenderly on the front seat.\n\n\"Will you tell the coachman where to go?\"\n\n\"Yaas, droive ter Greenleaf Court.\"\n\nThe Prince of Pity lay dying of want in one of the poorest quarters of\nthe great city. His face was gaunt and weather-beaten, his eyes glazed\nand dull. A young child sat on the floor nursing a half-starved\ncat--both waifs of the street rescued from utter misery by the good\nSamaritan.\n\nSorrow was always with the poor of Greenleaf Court; but now their\naffliction was more bitter than ever. Their dear master, who had devoted\nhis life to them, and had given away all his worldly goods until he was\nas poor and destitute as they, the man who told them of sweet flowers\nand green meadows and silver streams, he who made peace in their\nquarrels, divided his scanty earnings among them, taught the children,\nhe, their only stay in a world of suffering and want, was leaving them\nfor ever.\n\nThe Prince of Pity lay drowsing away to \"poppied death.\"\n\nThe wind wailed and sobbed round the house, and burst in at the door as\nLady Mercy entered.\n\nShe saw the man. His clothes were worn and old, but she beheld only his\nface; that face which even the poor who almost worshipped him thought\nugly, was beautiful to her; it told of love and charity. She knew his\nlife had been lived for others.\n\n\"Ah, you have come at last!\" he cried. \"Welcome. I so feared I should\ndie without any one to continue my work, and I asked the Wind that\nsprung up in the early hours to waft me some one hither.\"\n\n\"He has obeyed you. I am named the Windflower; but, sir, you too have a\nbeautiful title; they call you the Prince of Pity. Who are you?\"\n\n\"I am an unworthy follower of the man Christ.\"\n\n\"You are then a Christian?\"\n\n\"I said the _man_ Christ. I belong to no Church. I profess no creed.\"\n\n\"What do you do?\"\n\n\"My child,\" he said, and his voice sounded sorrowful like the sobbing of\nthe sea, \"my life's work is all in these simple lines,--\n\n\"'Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep.'\"\n\n\"You are then he whom I seek. You are Terah, the breather of good. But,\nsir, you seem ill. Can I help you?\"\n\n\"Yes, care for my poor. Be to them all the Wind is to you; rock them\ninto life, soothe them into death; sob with them in grief, shout with\nthem in joy. I am going away.\"\n\n\"Whither?\"\n\n\"To the earth, to rest and peace at last.\"\n\n\"Not to heaven?\"\n\n\"My child, have you lived in the great city and not learned that we can\nimagine no heaven so lovely as the joy of our hearts when we do a good\naction? I am on the verge of that sleep which knows no awakening. The\nHalls of Death lead not unto Life.\"\n\nMercy was dazed with the beauty of the man's soul. It filled his eyes\nwith a radiance which overwhelmed her.\n\n\"I have found Terah,\" she cried, looking heavenwards, and clasping her\nhands in an ecstasy of happiness. \"The world is bright again. My ideal\nis true. Beautiful, merciful; and self an immolated sacrifice. Why have\nI lost my youth in seeking him to lose him now?\"\n\nA distant voice seemed to float on the wind. \"Had he lived you must have\ndied. The good action has its reward here and hereafter. He has passed\nthrough the Halls of Death unto the House of Life. Be content, you have\nbeen much blessed. The Ideal is realised in heaven.\"\n\nThe room was filled with a perfume as of many flowers. The wind sobbed\nout a requiem. Lady Mercy's face shone with a great light. She looked\ndown. The Prince of Pity lay dead.\n\nOn the site of Greenleaf Court a beautiful house now stands, every\nwindow full of flowers. Designed by a great architect, all the poor of\nthe district were employed to help in its erection. It is called the\n\"House of Pity.\" In the large hall, where the hungry are fed and the\nsorrowful are comforted, the following inscription is wrought on the\nwall in letters of gold, wreathed with windflowers:--\n\n[Illustration: REJOICE WITH THEM THAT DO REJOICE AND WEEP WITH THEM THAT\nWEEP]\n\n\n\n\n                         _SECOND EDITION._\n\n                       THE GOLDEN FAIRY BOOK.\n\n                     FAIRY TALES OF OTHER LANDS.\n\n                                BY\n\n       GEORGE SAND, MORITZ JOKAI, ALEXANDRE DUMAS, VOLTAIRE,\n              DANIEL DARE, XAVIER MARMIER, Etc., Etc.\n\n         _In crown 4to, richly gilt, and gilt edges, 6s._\n\n           With 110 Illustrations by H. R. Millar.\n\nA FEW PRESS OPINIONS.\n\n\"'The Golden Fairy Book' is brimful of charm, and must be cordially\nwelcomed. The book is one to be bought. It is rarely that fairy stories\nby such important authors come together. Young people are to be\ncongratulated upon the provision of such a boon companion as 'The Golden\nFairy Book,' to which Mr. H. R. Millar has contributed over one hundred\nartistic and amusing illustrations.\"--_Gentlewoman._\n\n\"An excellent collection of charming tales by famous authors. The volume\nis prettily bound, and excellently printed, with a profusion of\nillustrations.\"--_Times._\n\n\"'The Golden Fairy Book' need not be considered inferior to any. In\nappearance it is possibly ahead of all. Mr. Millar's illustrations\nare spirited and clever, and the tales in themselves have been selected\nwith great judgment from writers of all countries. If any find the old\ntales at all tiresome, let them take this 'Golden Book' in\npreference.\"--_Daily Graphic._\n\n\"A new and delightful departure ... this most attractive gift-book,\nwhich one may safely prophesy will be a sure delight to its many\npossessors.\"--_St. James' Budget._\n\n\"'The Golden Fairy Book' is as good as can be, and the illustrations are\nrefined and attractive. The stories are gathered from many nations--a\nparticular charm to this excellent collection.\"--_Westminster Gazette._\n\n\"Not only the little folk, but we 'children of a larger growth' will\nalso be delighted with this collection of wondrous fairy tales. The book\nis beautifully illustrated.\"--_The Lady._\n\n\"Among the prettiest books of the season is 'The Golden Fairy Book.'\nAdmirably illustrated, this volume is pleasing within and\nwithout.\"--_Globe._\n\n\"Boundless variety and that of the best.... 'The Golden Fairy Book' is\nwell calculated to charm and satisfy the most omnivorous youthful\nappetite for imagined wonders.\"--_Sketch._\n\n           London: HUTCHINSON & CO., 34, Paternoster Row.\n\n\nWith over 60 Full-page and other Illustrations by Harry Furniss and\nDorothy Furniss.\n\n                           THE WALLYPUG OF WHY.\n                            A Fanciful Story.\n\n                             By G. E. FARROW.\n\n  _In crown 4to, handsomely bound in cloth gilt, and gilt edges, 5s._\n\nContents.\n\n  The Way to Why.\n  The Fish with a Cold.\n  Breakfast for Tea.\n  Girlie Sees the Wallypug.\n  What is a Goo?\n  The Wallypug's fancy Dinner Party.\n  The Invisible Joke.\n  Can a Pig Perch?\n  Buying an Excuse.\n  The Ride with the Alphabet.\n  Girlie is Cartwrecked.\n  The Sphinx and the Bathing-Machine Woman.\n  What Happened at Why.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n                   With 84 Illustrations by H. R. Millar.\n\n                           THE SILVER FAIRY BOOK.\n                        Fairy Tales of Other Lands.\n\n                                    BY\n\nSARAH BERNHARDT, E. P. LARKEN, HORACE MURREIGH, HEGESIPPE MOREAU,\nVOLTAIRE, QUATRELLES, EMILE DE GIRARDEN, WILHELM HAUF, XAVIER MARMIER,\nLOUIS DE GRAMONT, Etc.\n\n             _In crown 4to, silvered cloth and silvered edges, 6s._\n\n\n                 London: HUTCHINSON & CO., 34, Paternoster Row.\n\n                            The Boys' Golden Library.\n\nEach Volume in crown 8vo, handsome cloth gilt binding, bevelled boards\nand gilt edges, with Illustrations on Plate Paper, 3_s._ 6_d._ per Volume.\n\n_By PROFESSOR CHURCH._\n  Pictures from Greek Life and Story.\n  Pictures from Roman Life and Story.\n\n_By DANIEL DE FOE._\n  Robinson Crusoe.\n\n_By EDWARD A. RAND._\n  Our Clerk from Barkton.\n  Fighting the Sea.\n  Up North in a Whaler.\n  Making the Best of It.\n\n_By DR. GORDON STABLES, R.N._\n  The Cruise of the Crystal Boat.\n\n_By FLORENCE MARRYAT._\n  The Little Marine.\n\n_By W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS._\n  The Warriors of the Crescent.\n\n_By JULES VERNE._\n  Round the World in Eighty Days, and Adventures in Southern Africa.\n    (Double Volume.)\n  Five Weeks in a Balloon, and A Journey to the Centre of the Earth.\n    (Double Volume.)\n  The English at the North Pole, and The Desert of Ice. (Double Volume.)\n\n\n                 London: HUTCHINSON & CO., 34 Paternoster Row.\n\n                             New Library for Girls.\n\n                           THE GIRLS' GOLDEN LIBRARY.\n\nEach Volume in crown 8vo, handsome cloth gilt binding, bevelled boards\nand gilt edges, with Illustrations on Plate Paper, 3_s._ 6_d._ per Volume.\n\n_By SARAH TYTLER._\n  A Bubble Fortune.\n\n_By AMELIA E. BARR._\n  A Singer from the Sea.\n  Love for an Hour is Love for Ever.\n\n_By E. WETHERELL._\n  The Wide, Wide World.\n\n_By E. S. CUMMINS._\n  The Lamplighter.\n\n_By S. DOUDNEY._\n  Where Two Ways Meet.\n  The Family Difficulty.\n  A Child of the Precinct.\n\n_By MRS. J. KENT SPENDER._\n  No Humdrum Life for Me.\n\n_By ANNA E. LISLE._\n  Winnie Travers.\n  Self and Self-Sacrifice.\n\n_By W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS._\n  The Maid of Orleans.\n\n_By M. C. HALIFAX._\n  Among the Welsh Hills.\n\n_By MARGARET HAYCRAFT._\n  The Clever Miss Jancy.\n\n_By MRS. G. LINNAEUS BANKS._\n  Miss Pringle's Pearls.\n\n_By EVELYN EVERETT GREEN._\n  My Cousin from Australia.\n\n_By LOUISA M. ALCOTT._\n  Little Women and Nice Wives.\n\n\n             London: HUTCHINSON & CO., 34 Paternoster Row.\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"The Village of Youth, and Other Fairy Tales","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":26898}