# Orange Grove (Wall)/Chapter 14

"The blue Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew Of summer night collected still to make The morning precious: Beauty was awake! Why were ye not awake?"
What is it Rosa, makes thy eye so bright, and thy step so light? Has some ministering spirit been whispering to thy troubled soul some sweet message of peace and love? Ah yes, it is even so, but be not too sanguine Rosalind; perhaps it is only the delusive calm that precedes a still greater struggle, and it may be,—the last.
Who that has trod the mourner's path, has not felt gleams of God's own sunlight bursting through some overcharged cloud of despondency and despair, as if to reveal a glimpse of the blessed future beyond, and nerve the soul for a sterner conflict?
Such was the experience of Rosalind, as she rose early one lovely June morning and sauntered down the shaded avenue to the gate, which commanded a full view of the Connecticut sporting with the sunbeams.
The sky was cloudless, the air soft and breezy, the birds carolled their joyous notes from the tree-tops overhead, and she looked upward to that far off world whither her father had gone, when distance ​was annihilated, and it seemed to have suddenly come down to her. She slowly retraced her steps, catching a glimpse, now and then, of the graceful curve of the fountain spray through the openings of the trees on either side, and stopped at a flower bed in front of the house laid out in the form of a circle, which had been preserved with scrupulous care in the exact style originally designed by her father. It comprised some of the rarest plants of the season, now in luxuriant bloom; and, glistening in their tear-drops of dew she thought they never looked half so beautiful before.
She stooped lovingly down to fondle them, as she had done in years gone by, when she pointed out triumphantly to her father some new law she had discovered relative to their organization and growth. While thus engaged. Earnest came up the walk, bringing her his hands full of pond lilies he had that morning gathered. She was dressed in a simple white morning wrapper with no ornament whatever, and the glossy ringlet which had received more than its usual care, looked glossier than ever, as, disengaging itself from the others, it gently swayed in the shining rays of the morning sun.
He had never seen her in one of those trance-like states necessary to display her spiritual beauty, when she was so much at peace with herself and all the world that nothing could disturb her serenity. She was not communicative at such times, the communings of her thoughts being of a character too intensely spiritual to be symbolized in human language. Ernest ​was well pleased with this, being more accustomed to reading the language of the soul in the lineaments of the face than in the utterances of the lips.
He conceived the happy thought of painting her portrait in the act of taking the pond lilies, "What can be more beautiful," said he to himself.
He returned to his rooms, and, immediately after breakfast set about the pleasant task, putting aside his other sketches, and worked at it incessantly for three days, making the most rapid progress. He wished her to know nothing of it until its completion when he intended to surprise her with it as a present.
There is a delicious sense of rapture in being the sole repository of one's own secret. Even if another is to share it before it can become a reality, there may be a kind of cruel pleasure in feeling that that one is yet in innocent ignorance of the fact. Ernest had reached that point when anticipation included the reality just enough to lend enchantment to every object of the physical sense as well as the diviner feelings. Nature spoke to him more kindly than before, and the subtle influence of a kindred soul, though unacknowledged, softened into beauty every rugged outline of her coloring.
The next day be was invited to join a party of young people in an evening stroll, where he fell in company with Grace Blanche. The close affinity of tastes between them always brought them together when both were present, which produced sufficient occasion among all who were given to gossip and some who were not, to link their fates together. It ​is useless to censure the public for it's interest in all affairs of this kind, being just as natural as to breathe in the fresh morning air. As they were deeply engaged in conversation the rest of the party withdrew, leaving them unconsciously to tread a path by themselves. When Ernest observed it he smiled at their conceited knowledge, but was entirely satisfied with the position assigned to him. Rosalind was not invited, having lived a very secluded life since her father's death, and Miss Blanche filled her place better than any one else could. But of what was he dreaming? Why was Rosalind so closely associated with his deepest thoughts? She had not even given one token of regard for him. It was the instinctive trusting nature of love, which could afford to wait and be patient.
Grace Blanche felt lonely and sad, more so than he knew of, and the peculiar turn of his conversation which sometimes touched upon themes extending beyond this world soothed and consoled her. It might have been dangerous to her happiness ultimately, to form such an intimate friendship at this particular time.
Especially is this true of ordinary minds, but Grace Blanche had too much sense and strength of character for that, or to continue the acquaintance of a gentleman who was open to suspicion like Mr. Carleton. Much as he had won her affections, she was not so blinded as to discard wise counsel concerning him without giving it sufficient consideration. Her own judgment warranted the conclusion ar​rived at by others, that it is possible for vice to assume the garb of virtue, and resolutely she determined to oppose the current of her feelings. Most opportune came this brief interview with Mr. Livingston to strengthen her in this decision, and with the most friendly feelings, but none other, they separated.