The Seaboard Parish, Complete. George MacDonald

two white, half-transparent hands, took it as if it had been a human baby and looked at it lovingly till the tears came in her eyes. She would have made a tender picture, as she then lay, with her two hands up, holding the little beauty before her eyes. Then I said what I have already written about the mirror, and repeated the sonnet to her. Here it is, and my readers will owe me gratitude for it. My friend had found the snowdrop in February, and in frost. Indeed he told me that there was a tolerable sprinkling of snow upon the ground:

      “I know not what among the grass thou art,

       Thy nature, nor thy substance, fairest flower,

       Nor what to other eyes thou hast of power

       To send thine image through them to the heart;

       But when I push the frosty leaves apart,

       And see thee hiding in thy wintry bower,

       Thou growest up within me from that hour,

       And through the snow I with the spring depart.

       I have no words. But fragrant is the breath,

       Pale Beauty, of thy second life within.

       There is a wind that cometh for thy death,

       But thou a life immortal dost begin,

       Where, in one soul, which is thy heaven, shall dwell

       Thy spirit, beautiful Unspeakable!”

      “Will you say it again, papa?” said Connie; “I do not quite understand it.”

      “I will, my dear. But I will do something better as well. I will go and write it out for you, as soon as I have given you something else that I have brought.”

      “Thank you, papa. And please write it in your best Sunday hand, that I may read it quite easily.”

      I promised, and repeated the poem.

      “I understand it a little better,” she said; “but the meaning is just like the primrose itself, hidden up in its green leaves. When you give it me in writing, I will push them apart and find it. Now, tell me what else you have brought me.”

      I was greatly pleased with the resemblance the child saw between the plant and the sonnet; but I did not say anything in praise; I only expressed satisfaction. Before I began my story, Wynnie came in and sat down with us.

      “I have been to see Miss Aylmer, this morning,” I said. “She feels the loss of her mother very much, poor thing.”

      “How old was she, papa?” asked Connie.

      “She was over ninety, my dear; but she had forgotten how much herself, and her daughter could not be sure about it. She was a peculiar old lady, you know. She once reproved me for inadvertently putting my hat on the tablecloth. ‘Mr. Shafton,’ she said, ‘was one of the old school; he would never have done that. I don’t know what the world is coming to.’ ”

      My two girls laughed at the idea of their papa being reproved for bad manners.

      “What did you say, papa?” they asked.

      “I begged her pardon, and lifted it instantly. ‘O, it’s all right now, my dear,’ she said, ‘when you’ve taken it up again. But I like good manners, though I live in a cottage now.’ ”

      “Had she seen better days, then?” asked Wynnie.

      “She was a farmer’s daughter, and a farmer’s widow. I suppose the chief difference in her mode of life was that she lived in a cottage instead of a good-sized farmhouse.”

      “But what is the story you have to tell us?”

      “I’m coming to that when you have done with your questions.”

      “We have done, papa.”

      “After talking awhile, during which she went bustling a little about the cottage, in order to hide her feelings, as I thought, for she has a good deal of her mother’s sense of dignity about her—but I want your mother to hear the story. Run and fetch her, Wynnie.”

      “O, do make haste, Wynnie,” said Connie.

      When Ethelwyn came, I went on.

      “Miss Aylmer was bustling a little about the cottage, putting things to rights. All at once she gave a cry of surprise, and said, ‘Here it is, at last!’ She had taken up a stuff dress of her mother’s, and was holding it in one hand, while with the other she drew from the pocket—what do you think?”

      Various guesses were hazarded.

      “No, no—nothing like it. I know you could never guess. Therefore it would not be fair to keep you trying. A great iron horseshoe. The old woman of ninety years had in the pocket of the dress that she was wearing at the very moment when she died, for her death was sudden, an iron horseshoe.”

      “What did it mean? Could her daughter explain it?”

      “That she proceeded at once to do. ‘Do you remember, sir,’ she said, ‘how that horseshoe used to hang on a nail over the chimneypiece?’ ‘I do remember having observed it there,’ I answered; ‘for once when I took notice of it, I said to your mother, laughing, “I hope you are not afraid of witches, Mrs. Aylmer?” And she looked a little offended, and assured me to the contrary.’ ‘Well,’ her daughter went on, ‘about three months ago, I missed it. My mother would not tell me anything about it. And here it is! I can hardly think she can have carried it about all that time without me finding it out, but I don’t know. Here it is, anyhow. Perhaps when she felt death drawing nearer, she took it from somewhere where she had hidden it, and put it in her pocket. If I had found it in time, I would have put it in her coffin.’ ‘But why?’ I asked. ‘Do tell me the story about it, if you know it.’ ‘I know it quite well, for she told me all about it once. It is the shoe of a favourite mare of my father’s—one he used to ride when he went courting my mother. My grandfather did not like to have a young man coming about the house, and so he came after the old folks were gone to bed. But he had a long way to come, and he rode that mare. She had to go over some stones to get to the stable, and my mother used to spread straw there, for it was under the window of my grandfather’s room, that her shoes mightn’t make a noise and wake him. And that’s one of the shoes,’ she said, holding it up to me. ‘When the mare died, my mother begged my father for the one off her near forefoot, where she had so often stood and patted her neck when my father was mounted to ride home again.’ ”

      “But it was very naughty of her, wasn’t it,” said Wynnie, “to do that without her father’s knowledge?”

      “I don’t say it was right, my dear. But in looking at what is wrong, we ought to look for the beginning of the wrong; and possibly we might find that in this case farther back. If, for instance, a father isn’t a father, we must not be too hard in blaming the child for not being a child. The father’s part has to come first, and teach the child’s part. Now, if I might guess from what I know of the old lady, in whom probably it was much softened, her father was very possibly a hard, unreasoning, and unreasonable man—such that it scarcely ever came into the daughter’s head that she had anything else to do with regard to him than beware of the consequences of letting him know that she had a lover. The whole thing, I allow, was wrong; but I suspect the father was first to blame, and far more to blame than the daughter. And that is the more likely from the high character of the old dame, and the romantic way in which she clung to the memory of the courtship. A true heart only does not grow old. And I have, therefore, no doubt that the marriage was a happy one. Besides, I daresay it was very much the custom of the country where they were, and that makes some difference.”

      “Well, I’m sure, papa, you wouldn’t like any of us to go and do like that,” said Wynnie.

      “Assuredly not, my dear,” I answered, laughing. “Nor have I any fear of it. But shall I tell you what I think would be one of the chief things to trouble me if you did?”

      “If you like, papa. But it sounds rather dreadful to