The
twilight was deepening into the warm, scented dusk of a mid-summer eve,
with nameless soft noises amid the dew and the perfume, as countless
tiny creatures settled themselves to repose or came out for their
nightly dance beneath the stars.
The tender influences of night and silence inwrapped the girl as if in
motherly arms, and she felt glad, and hushed, and still. What was the
little struggle of a day when all this great, yet minute world lived,
slept, woke and worked, subject to one Will--a Will mighty enough to
control the universe, precise enough to make perfect and beautiful the
down upon the wing of an insect invisible except under a powerful
microscope? Why should she fret, or worry, or dread?
"I have but one care," she said, "to do right--to abide by my inner
heaven-given instinct, which we call conscience, the rest is of the
Will."
She leaned her head back restfully against the small down pillow tied by
gay ribbons to her chair; but her resting soul leaned against an Arm,--
mighty to save, and tender to feel. Amid all her musings ran the sweet
strains of the old English ballad the others were singing inside, whose
refrain only was clear to her,--
"Trust me, Love, only Trust!"
A figure moving with a springing motion came swiftly up the gravelled
walk and mounted the steps.
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