Four Phases of Love

e which had passed over her. The rector's wife could not but believ

s of manner which Mary showed towards Clement and his parents. She wished for nothing more than to be permit

eness. She took Clement's arm again when they walked. She often begged that she might be allowed to sit down and rest, not that she was tired, but in order to leave the boy in freedom to clamber where

ties from her which formerly she would hardly have been equal to. Her household cares occupied her early and late. In spite of her privation, she knew every cranny of the small house thoroughly, and if she herself was but seldom able to help with her own hands, yet she was clever and full of forethought in ordering all things so that her sorrowing fat

town, she was able to say farewell to him, even more composedly than the others. It is true that she went about for weeks as in a dream--as if the best half of her being had been torn away from her. But soon she was as cheerful as before, sang her favourite songs to herself, and rallied he

lled in tresses down her slender neck, hastily with her hands, and rose from her work. As he entered the door every trace of excitement had vanished from her features. Cheerfully she gave him her hand, and begged him to sit near her and to talk to her. Then he

o let her feel the newly-sprung down. He had, too, many more things to tell her than the first time he returned. The tutor with whom he lived had daughters, and these daughters had lady friends. He was obliged to describe them one and all with the greatest accuracy. "I can make nothing out of the girls," he said; "they are silly and frivolous, and chatter too much. There is one, Cecilia, that I can endure a little better than the others, because she can hold her tongue, and d

ty and real sorrow had not saved her. Her father, who had for a long time been able to do his duty with difficulty, had a paralytic stroke, and lay nearly a year perfectly helpless, until a second attack pu

y a seeing one. She kept the strictest order over all things of which she had the care, and no amount of cleanliness could satisfy her, as she was unable to judge by the eye when the least speck of dust was removed. The tears sprang into Clement's eyes when he saw her busied w

erly, was informed of all these changes by letters, which reached him but rarely, and were answered irregularly. Now and then his letters contained a note for Mary, in which he expressed himself condescendingly and jestingly, so

o take care of her health, and to be quiet, and to let him know exactly how she was. This was in winter, and this letter the last to Mary. They expected a visit from him at Easter. He remained away, a

ck. "So you," she cried, as she loosened herself from his arms, and took a step backwards to measure the long absent one with the full gaze of love, "So you have returned to us once again, unkind, forgetful one. You still remember the way to your father and mother. God be praised! I thought that you had made up your mind

resolution beforehand. I felt that I must get home. One bright morning, instead of going to lecture, I walked through the town-gates, and strode aw

own him. And Mary is out in the field with our people. I have sent her out because she will not let me do anything. When she is at home she would make me sit in the corner with my hands in my lap, if she had her own way, and do everything herself. We have some new serva

her. I must go to the kitchen and the garden, they will have spoilt you in the town, you must be content for love's sake." She was already gone, as the father and son stood silently opposite each other; "I have disturbed you," said Clement, at last; "you were writing your sermon; tell me if I shall go." "You only disturb one who has disturbed himself. Since this morning have I paced to and fro, thinking on my text, but grace was not with me, and the grain hath not brought forth. I have felt strangely; a gloom is over me that I cannot shake off." He went to the little window that looked out towards the church, the way to which lay through the churchyard. There it glowed tranquil with its flowers and glittering crosses in the midday sun. "Come here, Clement," said th

xcuse me? The world grows too wise for me! What I hear I understand not, and what I read my soul will not understand, for it is grief to it! How many rise up an

foot of my bed, and looked calmly down upon me. At first, it oppressed me sorely! I was not enough grown in grace to look on the face of a glorified being. The next day I felt the peace that it had left behind it. From that time it came not again until last night. I had been reading a book in the evening, blasphemous against God and God's word; I had gone to my bed in anger--then it was that, after midnight, I again started suddenly from my sleep, and he stood before me--dressed as at the first time, b

r pass over him. "Father!" he cried, and seized his nerveless hand--it wa

ed himself up in every limb, "I am well. Therein it lies. My soul

s, father, a

that I was awake, as

visions even when you are awake, alarm me. See! even now you are quite overcome by the mere recollection, and you

I not deserve punishment for blurting out God's secrets, and making my full heart a mark for the scorner? Is this the fruit of your learning? Do you expect to gather

He did not look towards Clement, who stood gazing on the

those sleek materialists, that the miracle is ridiculous, and the spirit but a tale told from one to another, and to which man liste

life to the consideration of this question. I have heard it decided in different ways, by men whose opinions I revere.

r me is against m

en though he binds it to the material? Do not its miracles remain what they were, even though they m

ey deafen you with high sounding words, that you may not hear the still s

ecause I

t which he had been standing sorrowfully. "It is Mary," said the old man; "have you forgotten her too? Did the recollection of your childhood's playmate never pass before your soul, when your blasphemous companions endeavoured to destroy your pu

h flushing cheek Mary stood on the threshold; "Clement," she cried, fixing the bright brown eyes on the spot where he really stood. He approac

I was obliged to come to see you all. How

, dearest father." she added, "we went out so early that I could not press your hand;" she took it now. "Go below my child;" said the o

ther?" asked Mary, when they were below. "His voice so

e seems ill. Has he not

etimes silent for hours together. It struck m

ious things; he asked me, and

the open air did her face brighten. "Is it not be

u have made out of the little barren spot! Ever since I can remember there wer

sacristan's son, who has learned gardening in the town, gave me the first rose bush, and planted it

e care of th

d for plants. I can tell by the scent when one is fading, or going out of flower, or wants wate

ses. She took it "You have gathered so many buds with it!" she said. "I will keep

y so shy at taking part in the conversation, had to-day a hundred things to tell and to ask about. Even the old man gradually los

he parried a question, or answered with an unmeaning word, the enforced silence wrung his very heart. Mary managed, even, to revive the old tone again for a time; but he saw that she too suffered, and avoided her when he met her alone, for he knew that she would have asked him, and felt that from her he could conceal nothing. A shadow seemed to pass over him when he came into her presence. Was it the recollection of that childish promise to which he ha

or herself. And a blind wife! One that he must always fear to leave for a moment! Here in the village, where all went on its simple way, and to which she had been accustomed since her childhood, here she was protected from all the conf

little wicket-gate. He made a wide détour. But when he reached the fields, he was unable to follow the narrow path through the springing corn without casting one glance round; so he stood still in the mild sunshine, and looked back over the huts and the houses. Behind the hedge which surrounded his father's garden, he saw the slender figure of the blind girl. Her face was turned t

of you,--write oftener to your parents; your mother lo

red, absently.

d her, but did not look round. "It is well that he did not hear