A Country Idyl, and Other Stories. Sarah Knowles Bolton

a moment, and then went cautiously up to the great trunk. Two dark eyes full of tears gazed up into his eyes, at first with a startled look and then with a gleam of joy and trust.

      “Mimosa!” he exclaimed, and clasped the Indian girl in his arms. “Why are you here, child, at this time of night?”

      “I came here to think of you, Martin, and the moonlight is so sweet and comforting. The green trees and the mountains tell me of you.”

      “I have brought you back the ring, Mimosa.”

      “And are you rich yet? You were to keep it till you were rich.”

      “No, but I would be rich, perhaps, if you would tell me where the gold in the ring was found.”

      “My father gave it to me,” she replied quietly.

      “Mimosa, would you love me if I were rich?”

      “Perhaps I should be afraid of you if you were.”

      “Would you love me if I remained poor as I am now?”

      “Yes, always.”

      “And if I became sick and could not care for you, what then?”

      “I would care for you, Martin.”

      “I have brought back the ring, Mimosa, that you may give it to the man who shall make you his bride.”

      “And would you like to keep the ring yourself, Martin?”

      “Yes, dearest.”

      They went back to the home of Red Cloud, happy because promised to each other in marriage.

      After a quiet wedding Mimosa said one day: “Come with me, Martin, and I will show you where the gold in the ring and the necklace were found.”

      Not very far from the tree where the miner had lain down discouraged Mimosa pointed out the shining ore, the spot known only to the few Indians.

      “Mimosa, there is a mine here! This gold is the outcropping of the veins. I shall yet be rich, my darling.”

      “Would you surely love me as much, Martin, if you were rich?”

      “I would give you everything your heart desired.”

      “And not go to an Eastern country, and be great, and forget Mimosa?”

      “Never!”

      With a happy heart Martin Daly took his pick to the mountains. The golden ore opened under his touch. His claim each day showed more value. He had, indeed, become rich through the ring of Mimosa.

      Times have changed. The children of the Indian girl, educated, gentle as their mother and energetic as their father, are in a handsome house. Love in the home has kept as bright as the gold in the mountain.

      FOUR LETTERS.

       Table of Contents

      DEAR ERNEST: I am sitting under a great oak this summer afternoon, just as the sun is setting. The western sky is crossed with bands of brilliant red and yellow, while overhead, and to the east, pink fleecy clouds are floating like phantom ships of coral. The green forest of beech and oak at my right mellows in the deepening gray of the twilight, and the white mansion at my left, with its red roof, looks like some castle in a story. The grand blue lake in the distance seems closer to me in the subdued light, and I almost question if this be a picture or reality.

      How I wish you were here to sit beside me, and talk as we used to do in college days! Then we wondered where each would be, what experiences would fill each heart, and what the future had for us in its shadowy keeping.

      You have been a wanderer, and seen much of the world. I have had, for the most part, a quiet life of study, have finished a book, have had anxieties, as who has not, but, best of all, I have found my ideal.

      You will perhaps smile at this, and recall to me my love of athletic sports, my disregard of the affections, my entire ability to live without the gentler sex. Not that you and I both did not admire a brilliant eye, or a rosy lip, or a perfect hand, but life was so full without all this that we looked at women as one does at rare pictures—expensive luxuries, to be admired rather than possessed.

      But all has changed with me. I have met one who will, I think, fill my vision for life. She is not strictly beautiful. Her blue eyes are calm and clear. Her manner is not responsive, and she would seem to a stranger like one to be worshipped from afar. She has depth of affection, but it is not on the surface.

      Edith Graham is to most persons a mystery. She loves nature, sits with me often to enjoy these wonderful sunsets, makes me feel that I am in the presence of a goddess, and goes her way, while I continue to worship her.

      Yes, I think I have used the right word—“worship.” I walk a thousand times past the house where she lives because she is there. I linger in the pathways where she daily walks, with the feeling that her footsteps have given them a special sacredness. I know well the seat in the forest near here where she comes to read and look upon the distant lake. Every friend of hers is nearer to me because her friend. The graves, even, of her dear ones are precious to me. Every tree or flower she has admired is fairer to me. The golden-rod of the fields I keep ever in my study because she loves and gathers it. I have planted red carnations in my garden because she delights to wear them. The autumn leaves are exquisite to me because she paints them, and I recall the sound of her feet among the rustling leaves with the same joy which I feel in remembering the music of the priests of Notre Dame, or the voices of the nuns of the Sacré Cœur in Rome, at sunset.

      The moon, from new to full, has an added beauty because when Edith and I are separated she speaks to us both the eternal language of love. When I watch the clouds break over her majestic face I know that Edith too enjoys the beauty of the scene.

      The song of the robins among our trees is sweeter because Edith hears it. The little stream that wanders near us and glides over the stones at the foot of the hill in a white sheet of spray is a bond between us, for we have both looked upon it. Edith’s name seems as musical to me as the waterfall. I can fancy that it is graven upon my heart.

      I know every change of her features—she is almost always quiet—and her every word and act I have gone over and over in my mind ten thousand times. We have read together, and I hope she loves me. This companionship is so blessed that I dread to speak to her of love—though my face must always tell it—lest, possibly, the dream be dispelled, and I wake to the dreadful knowledge that she cannot be mine.

      Do you know all these feelings, Ernest? Whatever you may think of me, I have grown a nobler man through them. All womanhood is more sacred to me. I can do work I never thought myself capable of before. It would be a pleasure to work for Edith as long as I live. I am going to Europe soon, and I must settle this matter. I will write you then.

      Yours,

      John.

      Dear Ernest: The scene has changed since I wrote you months ago. I am at the foot of the Jungfrau, whose snowy top, gilded by the sun, is ever a thing of beauty.

      The day I dreaded has come and gone. I have told Edith all my heart, and, alas! she is not mine. She was already half plighted to a young naval officer, whom she met when she was away at school. I believe she was fond of me, for our tastes are similar, but she has been the true woman through it all.

      I blame her? Never! I would not allow my heart to cherish such a thought for a moment.

      Do I love her less? No. Shall I think a flower less beautiful and fragrant because another owns it and enjoys it? Edith will be to me ever the same lovely picture of youthful womanhood—the same blessing, though to me unattainable. Do not imagine that I shall forget her. A man loves as deeply as a woman, often more deeply, and not seldom remembers as long as she does. Other faces may interest me; other women be companionable; but they will not be Edith.

      I