Diana

"And here I find you! O you beautiful creature!" Mrs. Reverdy burst out. "I declare, I don't wonder at – anything!" and she laughed. The laugh grated terribly on Diana. "I wonder if you know what a beauty you are?" she went on; – "I declare! – I didn't know you were half so handsome. Have you changed, since three years ago?"

"I think I must," Diana said quietly.

"But where have you been? Living here in Pleasant Valley?" was the next not very polite question.

"People do live in Pleasant Valley. Did you think not?" Diana answered.

"O yes. No. Not what we call life, you know. And you were always handsome; but three years ago you were just Diana Starling, and now – you might be anybody!"

"I am Mr. Masters' wife," said Diana, setting her teeth as it were upon the words.

"Yes, I heard. How happened it? Do you know, I am afraid you have done a great deal of mischief? O, you handsome women! – you have a great deal to account for. Did you never think you had another admirer? – in those days long ago, you know?"

"What if I had?" Diana said almost fiercely.

"O, of course," said Mrs. Reverdy with her laugh again, – "of course it is nothing to you now; girls are hard-hearted towards their old lovers, I know that. But weren't you a little tender towards him once? He hasn't forgotten his part, I can tell you. You mustn't be too hard-hearted, Diana."

If the woman could have spoken without laughing! That little meaningless trill at the end of everything made Diana nearly wild. She could find no answer to the last speech, and so remained silent.

"Now I have seen you again, I declare I don't wonder at anything. I was inclined to quarrel with him, you know, thinking it was just a boyish foolish fancy that he ought to get over; I was a little out of patience with him; but now I see you, I take it all back. I declare, you're a woman the men might rave about. You mustn't mind if they do."

"There is another question, whether my husband will mind." She said the words with a hard, relentless force upon herself.

"Is he jealous?" laughing.

"He has no reason."

"Reason! O, people are jealous without reason; they don't wait for that. Better without than with. How is Mr. Masters? is he one of that kind? And how came he to marry you?"

"You ought not to wonder at it, with the opinion you have expressed of me."

"O no, I don't wonder at all! But somebody else wanted to marry you too; and somebody else thought he had the best right. I am afraid you flirted with him. Or was it with Mr. Masters you flirted? I didn't think you were a girl to flirt; but I see! You would keep just quietly still, and they would flutter round you, like moths round a candle, and it would be their own fault if they both got burned. Has Mr. Masters got burned? My poor moth has singed his wings badly, I can tell you. I am very sorry for him."

"So am I," Diana said gravely.

"Are you? Are you really? Are you sorry for him? May I tell him you are sorry?"

"You have not said whom you are talking about," Diana answered, with a coldness which she wondered at when she said it.

"O, but you know! There is only one person I could be talking about. There is only one I could care enough about to be talking for him. You cannot help but know. May I tell him you say you are sorry for him? It would be a sort of comfort, and he wants it."

"You must ask Mr. Masters."

"What?"

"That."

"Whether I may tell Evan you are sorry for him?"

"Whether you may tell that to anybody."

"I don't want to tell it to but one," said Mrs. Reverdy, laughing.

"What has Mr. Masters to do with it?"

"He is my husband." And calmly as Diana said it, she felt as if she would like to shriek out the words to the birds on the hillside – to the angels, if there were angels in the air. Yet she said it calmly.

"But do you ask your husband about everything you do or say?"

"If I think he would not like it."

"But that is giving him a great deal of power, – too much. Husband's are fallible, as well as wives," said Mrs. Reverdy, laughing.

"Mr. Masters is not fallible. At least, I never saw him fail in anything. If he ever made a mistake, it was when he married me."

"And you?" said Mrs. Reverdy. "Didn't you make a mistake too?"

"In marrying somebody so much too good for me – yes," Diana answered.

The little woman was a good deal baffled.

"Then have you really no kind word for Evan? must I tell him so?"

Diana felt as if her brain would have reeled in another minute. Before she could answer, came the sound of a little wailing cry from the room up-stairs, and she started up. That movement was sudden, but the next were collected and slow. "You will excuse me," she said, – "I hear baby," – and she passed from the room like a princess. If her manner had been less discouraging, I think Mrs. Reverdy would have still pursued her point, and asked leave to follow her and see the baby; but Diana's slow, languid dignity and gracious composure imposed upon the little woman, and she gave up the game; at least for the present. When Miss Collins, set free, hurried down, Mrs. Reverdy was gone.

CHAPTER XXIX.
HUSBAND AND WIFE

Had she no kind word for Evan? Diana felt as if her heart would snap some one of its cords, and give over its weary beating at once and for ever. No kind word for Evan? her beloved, her betrayed, her life-treasure once, towards whom still all the wealth of her heart longed to pour itself out; and she might not send him one kind word? And he did not know that she had been true to him; and yet he had remained true to her. Might he not know so much as that, and that her heart was breaking as well as his? Only it would not break. All the pain of death without its cessation of consciousness. Why not let him have one word to know that she loved him still, and would always love him? Truth – truth and duty – loyal faith to her husband, the man whom in her mistake she had married. O, why could not such mistakes be undone! But they never could, never. It was a living death that she was condemned to die.

I cannot say that Diana really wavered at all in her truth; but this was an hour of storm never to be remembered without shuddering. She had her baby in her arms, but the mother's instincts were for the time swallowed up in the stormier passions of the woman. She cared for it and ministered to it, tenderly as ever, yet in a mechanical, automatic sort of way, taking no comfort and finding no relief in her sweet duty. It was the roar of the storm and the howling of temptation which overwhelmed every other voice in her heart. Then there were practical questions to be met. Mrs. Reverdy and her family at Elmfield, who could guarantee that Evan would not get a furlough and come there too? Mrs. Reverdy's words seemed to have some ultimate design, which they had not indeed declared; they had the air of somewhat different from mere aimless rattle or mischievous gossip. Suppose Evan were to come? What then?

The baby went off to sleep, and was laid away in its crib, and the mother stood alone at the window wrestling with her pain. She felt helpless in the grasp of it as almost never before. Danger was looming up and threatening dark in the distance; there might be a whirlwind coming out of that storm quarter, and how was she going to stand in the whirlwind? Beyond the wordless cry which meant "Lord help me!" – Diana could hardly pray at all at this moment; and the feeling grew that she must have human help. "Tell Basil" – a whisper said in her heart. She had shunned that thought always; she had judged it no use; now she was driven to it. He must know the whole. Perhaps then he could tell her what to do.

As soon as Diana's mind through all its tossings and turnings had fixed upon this point, she went immediately from thought to action. It was twilight now, or almost. Basil would not come home in time for a talk before supper; supper must be ready, so as to have no needless delay. She could wait, now she knew what she would do; though there was a fire burning at heart and brain. She went down-stairs and ordered something to be got ready for supper; finished the arrangement of the tea-table, which her husband liked to have very dainty; picked a rose for his plate, though it seemed dreadful mockery; and as soon as she heard his step at the door she made the tea. What an atmosphere of sweet, calm brightness he brought in with him, and always brought. It struck Diana now with the kind of a shiver which a person in a fever feels at the touch of fresh air. Yet she recognised the beauty of it, and it fortified her in her resolve. She would be true to this man, though she died for it! There was nothing but truth in him.

She got through the meal-time as she could; swallowed tea, and even ate bread, without knowing how it tasted, and heard Basil talk without knowing what he said. As soon as she could she went up-stairs to the baby, and waited till her husband should come too. But when he came, he came to her, and did not go to his study.

"Basil I want to speak to you – will you come into the other room?" she said huskily.

"Won't this room do to talk in?"

"No. It is over the kitchen."

"Jemima knows I never quarrel" – said Basil lightly; however, he led the way into the study. He set a chair for Diana and took another himself, but she remained standing.

"Basil – is God good?" she said.

"Yes. Inexpressibly good."

"Then why does he let such things happen?"

"Sit down, Di. You are not strong enough to talk standing. Such things?

What things?"

"Why does he let people be tempted above what they can bear?"

"He never does – his children – if that is what you mean. He always provides a way of escape."

"Where?"

"At Christ's feet."

"Basil, how can I get there?" she said with a sob.

"You are there, my darling," he said, putting her gently into the easy-chair she had disregarded. "Those who trust in him, his hand never lets go. They may seem to themselves to lose their standing – they may not feel the ground under their feet – but he knows; and he will not let them fall. If they hold fast to him, Diana."

"Basil, you don't know the whole."

"Do you want to tell me?"

Her voice was abrupt and hoarse; his was calm and cool as the fall of the dew.

"I want to tell you if I can. But I shall hurt you."

"I am very willing, if it eases you. Go on."

"It wont ease me. But you must know it. You ought to know. O, Basil, I made such a mistake when I married you!" —

She did not mean to say anything so bitter as that; she was where she could not measure her words. Perhaps his face paled a little; in the faint light she could not see the change of colour. His voice did not change.

"What new has brought that up?"

"Nothing new. Something old. O Basil – his sister has been here to-day to see me."

"Has she?" His voice did change a little then. "What did she come for?"

"I don't know. And he will be here, perhaps, by and by. O Basil, do you know who it is? And what shall I do?"

Diana had sprung up from her chair and dropped down on the floor by her husband's side, and hid her face in her hands on his knee. His hand passed tenderly, sorrowfully, over the beautiful hair, which lay in disordered, bright, soft masses over head and neck. For a moment he did not speak.

"Basil – do you know who it is?"

"I know."

"What shall I do?"

"What do you want to do, Diana?"

"Right" – she said, gasping, without looking up.

"I am sure of it!" he said tenderly. "Well, then – the only way is, to go on and do right, Diana."

"But how can I? how shall I? Suppose he comes? O Basil, it was all a mistake; he wrote, and mother kept back the letters, and I never got them; he sent them, and I never got them; and I thought he was not true and it did not matter what I did, and I honoured you above everything, Basil – and so – and so – I did what I did" —

"What cannot be undone."

"No – " she said, shivering.

He passed his hands again over her soft hair, and bent down and kissed it.

"You honour yourself, too, Diana, as well as me."

"Yes – " she said, under breath.

"And you honour our God, who has let all this come upon us both?"

"But, O Basil! how could he? how could he?"

"I don't know."

"And yet you say he is good?"

"And so you say too. The only good; the utterly, perfectly good; who loves his people, and keeps his promises, and who has said that all things shall work together for the good of those that love him."

"How can such a thing as this?" she said faintly.

"Suppose you and I cannot see how? Then faith comes in and believes it without seeing. We shall see by and by."

"But Basil – suppose – Evan – comes?"

"Well?"

"Suppose – he came – here?"

"Well, Diana?"

She was silent then, but she shook and trembled and writhed. Her head was still where she had laid it; her face hidden.

"You are going through as great a trial, my poor wife, as almost ever falls to the lot of a mortal. But you will go through it, and come out from it; and then it will be found to have been 'unto praise and honour and glory' – by and by."

"O how can you tell?"

"I trust in God. And I trust you."

"But I think he will come – here to Pleasant Valley, I mean. And if he comes – here, to this house, I mean" —

"What then?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"About seeing him?"

"Yes."

"What you like best to do, Diana."

"Basil – he does not know."

"What does he not know?"

"About the letters or anything. He has never heard – never a word from me."

"There was an understanding between you before he went away?"

"Oh yes!"

Both were silent again for a time; silent and still. Then Diana spoke timidly:

"Do you think it would be wrong for him to know?"

Her husband delayed his answer a little; truly, if Diana had something to suffer, so had he; and I suppose there was somewhat of a struggle in his own mind to be won through; however, the answer when it came was a quiet negative.

"May I write and tell him?"

He bent down and kissed her fingers as he replied – "I will."

"O Basil," said the woman at his feet, "I have wished I could die a thousand times! – and I am well and strong, and I cannot die."

"No," he said gravely; "we must not run away from our work."

"Work!" said Diana, sitting back now and looking up at him; – "what work?"

"The work our Master has given us to do to glorify him. To fight with evil and overcome it; to endure temptation, and baffle it; to carry our banner of salvation through the thick of the smoke and the fire, and never let it fall."

"I am so weak, I cannot fight."

"The fight of faith you can. The only sort of fighting that can prevail. Faith lays hold of Christ's strength, and so comes off more than conqueror. All you can do, is to hold fast to him."

"O Basil! why does he let such things happen? why does he let such things happen? Here is my life broken – and yours; both broken and ruined."

"No," the minister answered quietly, – "not mine, nor yours. Broken, if you will, but not ruined. Neither yours nor mine, Diana. With the love of Christ in our hearts, that can never be. He will not let it be."

"It is all ruined," said Diana; "it is all ruined. I am full of evil thoughts, and no good left. I have wished to die, and I have wanted to run away – I felt as if I must" —

"But instead of dying or running away, you have stood nobly and bravely to your post of suffering. Wait and trust. The Lord means good to us yet."

"What possible good?"

"Perhaps, that being stripped of all else, we may come to know him."

"Is it necessary that people should be stripped of all before they can do that?"

"Sometimes."

Diana stood still, and again there was silence in the room. The soft June air, heavy with the breath of roses, floated in at the open window, bringing one of those sharp contrasts which make the heart sick with memory and longing; albeit the balsam of promise be there too. People miss that. "Now men see not the bright light that is in the clouds;" and how should they? when the darkness of night seems to have fallen; how can they even remember that behind that screen of darkness there is a flood of glory? There came in sounds at the window too, from the garden and the wood on the hillside; chirruping sounds of insects, mingled with the slight rustle of leaves and the trickle of water from a little brook which made all the noise it could over the stones in its way down the hill. The voices were of tender peace; the roses and the small life of nature all really told of love and care which can as little fail for the Lord's children as for the furniture of their dwelling-place. Yet that very unchangeableness of nature hurts, which should comfort. Diana stood still, desolate, to her own sense seeming a ruin already; and her husband sat in his place, also still, but he was calm. They were quiet long enough to think of many things.

"You are very good, Basil!" Diana said at last.

It was one of those words which hurt unreasonably. Not because they are not true words and heartily meant, but because they are the poor substitute for those we would like to hear, and give us an ugly scale to measure distances and differences by. Basil made no sort of answer. Diana stood still. In her confusion of thoughts she did not miss the answer. Then she began again.

"Evan – I mean, Basil!" – and she started; – "I wish we could get away."

"From Pleasant Valley?"

"Yes."

"My work is here."

Is mine here too? thought Diana, as she slowly went away into the other room. What is mine? To die by this fire that burns in me; or to freeze stiff in the cold that sometimes almost stops my heart's beating? She came up to the side of her baby's crib and stood there looking, dimly conscious of an inner voice that said her work was not death.

CHAPTER XXX.
SUNSHINE

A few days later, the minister came home one evening with a message for his wife.

"Good old Mother Bartlett is going home, Diana, and she wants to see you."

"Home? Is she dying, do you mean?"

"She does not mean it. To her, it is entering into life."

"But what's the matter?"

"You know she had that bad cold. I think the treatment was worse than the disease; and under the effects of both, her strength seems to have given way. She is sinking quietly."

"I will go down there in the morning."

So the next day, early, Basil drove his wife down and left her at the cottage. It was somehow to Diana's feeling just such another day as had been that other wonderful one when she had seen Evan first, and he harnessed Prince, and they came together over this very road. Perhaps soon Evan would be riding there again, without her, as she was going now without him. Never together again, never together again! and what was life to either of them apart? Diana went into the cottage walking as one in a dream.

The cottage was in nice order, as usual, though no woman's hand had been about. Joe, rough as he was, could be what his friends called "real handy;" and he had put everything in trim and taken all care for his mother's comfort before he went out. The minister had told him Diana would be there; so after he had done this he went to his work. Mrs. Bartlett was lying on her bed in the inner room. Diana kissed her, with a heart too full at the moment to speak.

"Did the minister bring you?" the old lady asked.

"Yes. Are you all alone?"

"The Lord never leaves his children alone, dear. They leave him sometimes. Won't you open the winders, Diana. Joe forgot that, and I want to see the sun."

Diana rolled up the thick paper shades which hung over the windows, and put up the sashes. Summer air poured in, so full of warmth and brightness and sounds of nature's activity, that it seemed to roll up a tide of life to the very feet of the dying woman. She looked, and drew a deep breath or two.

"That's good!" she said. "The Lord made the sunshine. Now sit down, dear; I want to see you. Sit down there, where I can see you."

"Does Joe leave you here by yourself?"

"He knew you was comin'. Joe's a good boy. But I don't want him nor nobody hangin' round all the time, Diana. There ain't nothin' to do; only he forgot the winders, and I want to look out and see all my riches."

"Your riches, Mother Bartlett?" – And she was not going to live but a few days more. Diana wondered if her senses were wandering. But the old lady smiled; the wise, sweet smile that Diana knew of old.

"Whose be they, then?" she asked.

"You mean, all this pretty summer day?"

"Ain't it pretty? And ain't the sunshine clear gold? And ain't the sky a kind of an elegant canopy? And it's all mine, and all it covers, and he that made it too; and seein' what he makes, puts me in mind of how rich he is and what more he kin do. How's the baby?"

For some little time the baby was talked of, in both present and future relations.

"And you're very happy, Diana?" the old woman asked. "I hain't seen you now for quite a spell – 'most all winter."

"I ought to be" – Diana answered, hesitating.

"Some things folks does because they had ought to," remarked the old lady, "but bein' happy ain't one of 'em. The whole world had ought to be happy, if you put it so. The Lord wants 'em to be."

"Not happy" – said Diana hastily.

"Yes. 'Tain't his fault if they ain't."

"How can he want everybody to be happy, when he makes them so unhappy?"

"He? – the Lord? He don't make nobody unhappy, child. How did that git in your head?"

"Well, it comes to the same thing, Mother Bartlett. He lets things happen."

"He hain't chained up Satan yet, if that's what you mean. But Satan can't do no harm to the Lord's children. He's tried, often enough, but the Lord won't let him."

"But, Mother Bartlett, that's only a way of talking. I don't know if it is Satan does it, but every sort of terrible thing comes to them. How can you say it's not evil?"

"'Cause the good Lord turns it to blessing, dear. Or if he don't, it's 'cause they won't let him. O' course it is Satan does it – Satan and his ministers. 'Every good gift and every perfect gift cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.' How should he be kind to-day and unkind to-morrow?"

Diana could not trust her voice and was silent. The old woman looked at her, and said in a changed tone presently,

"What's come to you, Diana Masters? You had ought to be the happiest woman there is livin'."

Diana could not answer.

"Ain't you, dear?" Mrs. Bartlett added tenderly.

"I didn't mean to speak of myself," Diana said, making a tremendous effort to bring out her words unconcernedly; "but I get utterly puzzled sometimes, Mother Bartlett, when I see such things happen – such things as do happen, and to good people too."

"You ain't the fust one that's been puzzled that way," returned the old woman. "Job was all out in his reckoning once; and David was as stupid as a beast, he says. But when chillen gets into the dark, they're apt to run agin sun'thin' and hurt theirselves. Stay in the light, dear."

"How can one, always?"

"O, child, jes' believe the Lord's word. That'll keep you near him; and there is no darkness where he is."

"What is his word, that I must believe? – about this, I mean."

"That he loves us, dear; loves us tender and true; like you love your little baby, only a deal more; and truer, and tenderer. For a woman may forget her sucking child, but he never will forget. And all things he will make to 'work together for good to them that love him.'"

Diana shook and trembled with the effort to command herself and not burst into a storm of weeping, which would have betrayed what she did not choose to betray. She sat by the bedpost, clasping it, and with the same clasp as it were holding herself. For a moment she had "forgotten her sucking child," – the words came home; and it was only by that convulsive hold of herself that she could keep from crying out. With her face turned away from the sick woman, she waited till the convulsion had passed; and then said in measured, deliberate accents,

"It is hard to see how some things can turn out for good – some things I have known."

"Well, you ain't infinite, be you?" said Mrs. Bartlett. "You can't see into the futur'; and what's more, you can't see into the present. You don't know what's goin' on in your own heart – not as he knows it. No more you ain't almighty to change things. If I was you, I would jest trust him that is all-wise, and knows everything, and almighty and kin do what he likes."

"Then why don't he make people good?"

"I said, he kin do what he likes. He don't like to do people's own work for 'em. He doos make 'em good, as soon as they're willin' and ask him. But the man sick with the palsy had to rise and take up his bed and walk; and what's more, he had to believe fust he could do it. I know the Lord gave the power, but the man had his part, you see."

"Mother Bartlett," said Diana, rousing herself, "you must not talk so much."

"Don't do me no harm, Diana."

"But you have talked enough. Now let me give you your broth."

"Then you must talk. I hain't so many opportunities o' social converse that I kin afford to let one of 'em slip. You must talk while I'm eatin'."

But Diana seemed to have nothing to say. She watched the spoonfuls of broth in attentive silence.

"What's new, Diana? there allays is sun'thin'."

"Nothing new. Only" – said Diana, correcting herself, "the Knowltons are coming back to Elmfield. Mrs. Reverdy is come."

"Be the hull o' them comin'?"

"I believe so."

"What for?"

"I don't know. To enjoy the summer, I suppose."

"That's their sort," said the old woman slowly. "Jest to get pleasure. I used for to see 'em flyin' past here in all the colours o' the rainbow – last time they was in Pleasant Valley."

"But God made the colours of the rainbow," said Diana.

"So he did," the old lady answered, laughing a little. "So he did; and the colours of the flowers, which is the same colours, to be sure; but what then, Diana?"

"I was thinking, Mother Bartlett – it cannot displease him that we should like them too."

"No, child, it don't; nor it don't displease him to have us wear 'em, nother, – if we could only wear 'em as innercently as the flowers doos. If you kin, Diana, you may be as scarlet as a tulip or as bright as a marigold, for all I care."

"But people are not any better for putting on dark colours," said Diana.

"They're some modester, though."

"Why?"

"They ain't expectin' that folks'll be lookin' at 'em."

"Mr. Masters likes me to wear bright dresses."

"Then do it, child. It's considerable of a pleasure to have his eyes pleased. Do you know what a husband you've got, Diana?"

"Yes."

"He's 'most like one o' them flowers himself. He's so full o' the sweetness the Lord has put into him, and he's jest as unconscious that he's spreadin' it wherever he goes."

Diana was silent. She would have liked again to burst into tears; she controlled herself as before.

"That ain't the way with those Knowlton girls; nor it ain't the way they wear their fine colours, neither. Can't you get a little sense into their heads, Diana?"

"I? They think nothing of me, Mother Bartlett."

"Maybe not, two years ago, but they will now. You're the minister's wife, Diana. They allays sot a great deal by him."

Diana was chewing the cud of this, when Mrs. Bartlett asked again,

"Who's sick in the place?"

"Quite a number. There's Mrs. Wilson at the tavern; she's sinking at last; my husband sees her every day. Then old Josh Lightfoot – he's down with I don't know what; very sick. Mrs. Saddler has a child that has been hurt; he was pitched off a load of hay and fell upon a fork; his mother is distracted about him, and it is all Mr. Masters can do to quiet her. And Lizzie Satterthwaite is going slowly, you know, in consumption, and she expects to see him every day. And that isn't all; for over in the village of Bromble there is sickness – I suppose there always is in that miserable place."

"And the minister goes there too, I'll be bound?"

"O yes. He goes everywhere, if people want him. It takes twenty miles of riding a day, he told me, just to visit all these people that he must see."

"Ay, ay," said the old woman contentedly; "enjoyment ain't the end of life, but to do the will of God; and he's doin' it. And enjoyment comes that way, too; ay, ay! 'an hundred-fold now, in this world, and in the world to come eternal life.' I hain't ever been able to do much, Diana; but it has been sweet – his service – all along the way; and now I'm goin' where it'll be nothin' but sweetness for ever."

A little tired, perhaps, with talking, for she had talked with a good deal of energy, the old lady dozed off into a nap; and Diana sat alone with the summer stillness, and thought over and over some of the words that had been said. It was the hush of the summer stillness, and also the full pulse of the summer life that she felt as she sat there; not soothing to inaction, but stirring up the loving doing. A warm breath of vital energy, an odorous witness-bearing of life fruitfulness, a hum and a murmur of harmonious forces in action, a depth of colour in the light and in the shadow, which told of the richness and fullness of the natural world. Nothing idle, nothing unfruitful, nothing out of harmony, nothing in vain. How about Diana Masters, and her work and her part in the great plan? Again the gentle summer air which stole in, laden with such scents and sweets, rich and bountiful out of the infinite treasury, spoke of love at the heart of creation. But there were cold winds, too, sometimes; icy storms; desolations of tempests; they had been here not long ago. True, but yet it was not those, but this which carried on the life of the world; this was the "Yes," and those others the "No," of creation; and an affirmative is stronger than a negative any day, by universal acknowledgment. Moreover, that "No" was in order to this "Yes;" gave way before it, yielded to it; and life reigned in spite of death. Vaguely Diana's mind felt and carried on the analogy, and the reasoning from analogy, and drew a chill, far-off hope from it. For it was the time of storm and desolation with her now, and the summer sun had not come yet. She sat musing while the old lady slumbered.

"Hullo, Diany! here you be!" exclaimed the voice of Joe Bartlett, suddenly breaking in. "Here's your good man outside, waitin' for you, I guess; his horse is a leetle skittish. What ails your mother?"