A Secret Inheritance. B. L. Farjeon

a brave young fellow to smile and keep your eyes open to please your doctor. There--that is a rabbit darting through the sunlight--and the birds, do you hear them? They are singing hymns to the Creator. Yonder, high up in the distance, winging its way to the rosy light, is a skylark. 'Hail to thee, blithe spirit!' It is better for me to take you home in this way than to leave you lying by the stream yonder, while I went to Nerac to fetch assistance. You might have thought I was never coming back, and the torture of suspense would have been added to your other discomforts. Then, we shall reach Nerac a good many minutes earlier by this means. There are times when minutes are of serious importance. We are on an eminence, and are about to descend the valley which leads straight to Nerac. If you were quite yourself you would be just able to catch a glimpse of the roofs of the houses in our pretty village. There are few prettier--none in my opinion. We shall jolt a little going down hill. Bear up bravely; it will soon be over."

      With such-like words of encouragement, most kindly and sympathetically uttered, in tones soothing and melodious, did Doctor Louis strive to lighten the weary way, but long before we came to the end of our journey everything faded from my sight.

      CHAPTER VII.

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      When I became conscious of surrounding things I found myself in a large airy room, the pervading characteristics of which were space and light. I was lying in a bed, all the coverings of which were white; there were no curtains to it, and no hangings in the apartment to mar the deliciously cool and refreshing air which flowed in through the open folding windows. These windows, which stretched from ceiling to floor, faced the foot of the bed; my head was almost on a level with my body, and I could not obtain a level view of the gardens which bloomed without. But I had before me in the heights a delightful perspective of flowering trees, stretching upwards into the clouds. These clouds, of various shades of blue and white, filled all the spaces between the lovely network of leaves and branches. It was like gazing upwards instead of downwards into the waters of a clear and placid lake. A sense of blissful repose reigned within my soul. I had not the least desire to move; so perfect and so sweet was the peace in which I lay, as it were, embalmed, that I felt as if I were in a celestial land. There were trees with great clusters of red blossoms hanging in the clouds; a soft breeze was playing among them, and as they swayed gently to and fro fresh peeps of fairyland were continually disclosed to my contented eyes. There were nests in the trees, and the cloud-scapes of fleecy blue and white were beautifully broken now and again by the fluttering flight of birds as they came and went. The pictures I gazed upon, idealised and perfected by my mind's eye, have always abided with me. It is seldom given to man to enjoy what I enjoyed as I lay, then and for some time afterwards, in my white and healthful bed. It was a foretaste of heaven.

      So fearful was I that the slightest movement might destroy the lovely pictures that I did not even turn my head at the sound of my bedroom door being softly opened and closed. A light footstep approached the bed, and I beheld a young girl whose form and face I silently and worshipfully greeted as the fairest vision of womanhood in her spring that ever blessed the sight of man. Observing that my eyes were open, she gazed at me for a moment of two in wondering and glad surprise, and then, with her finger at her smiling lips, trod softly from the room as lightly as she had entered it. I closed my eyes, so that this fair picture, in its dress of pale blue, with lace about the neck and arms, might not be entirely lost to me, and when another sound in the room caused me to open them, in the hope that she had returned, I saw standing at my bedside a grave and kindly man.

      "So," he said in a quiet tone, "you are at length in the land of conscious life. You remember me?"

      "First enlighten me," I said, and I was surprised to hear my voice so weak and wavering. "I am really awake? I am really in the land of the living?"

      "So far as we know," was his reply. "There are those who say this life is but a dream, and that when we yield up our breath it is simply that our dream is ended, and that we are awaking to reality. For myself, I have not the least doubt that life is life, and death death, and that pain and joy are just what those words are intended to convey to our understanding."

      "So fair and peaceful is the scene before me," I said, "so calm was my soul when I awoke, that it is difficult to realise that I am in the land of the living."

      "You will realise it very vividly," he said gaily, "in an hour or two, when you are hungry. There is nothing so convincing as our grosser passions. You have not answered my question. Do you remember me?"

      "Yes, I remember you. I had sprained my ankle in crossing the stream that runs through the woods, and not being able to walk, was doomed to lie there all night with a fine storm playing pranks upon my helpless body. It was a wild night, and I had wild fancies. What would have become of me had you not providentially come to my assistance is easy enough to guess. I should really by this time have been in possession of the grand secret."

      "When did this occur?"

      "Yesterday."

      "My friend," said Doctor Louis, with a light laugh, "what you have so faithfully described took place four weeks ago. If you have any doubt of it, you have only to pass your hand over your beard."

      The statement bewildered me. Accepting it as fact--and it was not possible for me to doubt it--I must have lain during those four weeks in a state of delirium. What perplexed me was the consciousness that I had been so well cared for by strangers, and that something more than a friendly interest had been taken in me. The evidences were around and about me. The sweet-smelling room, the beautiful scene through the open folding windows, the entrance of the fair girl, the smile on whose lips seemed to speak of innocent affection, the presence of Doctor Louis, and the friendliness and sympathy with which he was conversing with me--all these might be construed into evidences even of love. Still it would not do to take things too much for granted.

      "Am I in an inn?" I asked.

      "You are in my house," replied Doctor Louis courteously, "my guest, in whom we are all very much interested."

      "All?"

      "Myself--who should properly be mentioned last--my wife, who is first, as she deserves to be--and my daughter, who is our Home Rose."

      Our Home Rose! The mere utterance of the words conveyed a sense of spiritual sweetness to me, who had never known the meaning of Home.

      "It pleases us to call her so," said Doctor Louis.

      "The young lady," I said, in a musing tone, "I saw in the room shortly before you entered, and whose appearance so harmonised with the peace and loveliness of the view of cloud and flower I see from my bed, that I should not have been surprised to hear she was spirit or angel."

      "An angel in a blue dress," said Doctor Louis, with pleasant nods; "but it is agreeable to me, her father, to hear you speak so of her. She is, as I have said, the rose of our home. If there is an angel in our house, it is her mother. Lauretta, as yet, is but a child; she has to prove herself in life. But I ask your pardon. These details can scarcely interest you."

      "They more than interest me," I said earnestly; "they do me good. Although you are a physician, your friendly confidence--which I accept as a privilege--is better than the most potent medicine you could administer to me. Pray continue to speak of your home and family. I beg of you!

      "A wise doctor," said Doctor Louis, "and such, of course, I account myself, occasionally humours his patient. But I must not give you all the credit; the theme is agreeable to me; it is, indeed, closest to my heart. I used to think, when Lauretta was a little child, and we were deriving an exquisite happiness from her pretty ways, that no happier lot could be ours than that she should always remain a child. But that would never do, would it? A world inhabited by children is not in Nature's scheme. Fit theme for a fairy story. It behoves us, however, of necessity, to be to some extent practical. I have no fear for Lauretta. Children who are not violently wrenched from their natural bent inherit and exhibit their parents' qualities. I, we will say, am negative. I have my opinions, strong ones and deeply planted, but there is no positive vice in me, so far as I am aware,