Daily Kennebec journal., 1882-07-11
Gales arlo Sketfbes.
BIffER-swEET.

IL
below came murmur Of waves trailing
on shingly beach. and mingling with
this murmur, the talk and laughter of the
fishermen melIowed by distance. Right
down through the sloping woodland a
brooklet leaped tinkliDg and gurgiing to
the sea.
The dim fragrance and dappled lights
add pleasant sounds Of the day made
three-foId ioy TO young girl who stood
beneath the trees in the April noon She
stood on part Of the slope whence the
frees had drawn back little and the light
fell about her just beyond the verge oi
the shadow. Round her feet were dead
leaves and living flowers, and soft gres n
mosses full Of the sweet rain that had fail-
en al the previous night With one hand
she shaded her eyes. the other was upliff-
ed to tend back a branch which had barred
the open space. Her hair was blown in a
brown cloud about her face and her hazel
eyes shone with serious JOY beneath the
shading hand.
For the first time in her life she was
tasting that singular gladness which comes
to mind and body. when alone with nature
in spring, after long Illness. To this
full content Of hers. all the long hours Of
fevcred tossing to and fro. followed by
tedious weeks Of convalescence, were but
background.
And now into her loneliness there came
another human presence-a young man,
carelessly whistline, treading gavly over
moss and flowers till he reached the rivu-
let, and paused on the further side, look
ing at the tall slim figure in the soft gray
gown, crowned by the brown hair and
wistful face just one moment, and he
turned off little higher up and sprang
across the stream. Only one look, and
there might have been no second; their
lives might have glided apart forever, but
for an accident--Or what we call an ac-
cident, which is really strong link in
many chain of life. As his foot touched
the bank he clipped on the damp earth.
spraining his ankle in the fall. He drew
himself into sitting posture and leaned
against tree, faint with pain. The young
girl came quickly toward him. II will
run and get help" she said. and meeting
his grateful look for a moment, went
quickly along the path that led toward
CIoverleigh. the village where she and
her father were staying. AT a turning,
she met a tall scholarly-looking man.
IL was looking for you, Margaret. Are
you wise to go bareheaded, my child ?"
he said. anxiously.
"My hat fell irto the brook. and il is so
mild. But, oh papa, there is gentle
man hurt down there. He has sprained
his ankle snd cannot walk" and she
waved her hand toward the woods below.
They found him faint and white; but he
made light of his suffering as they helped
him through the fringe of apple and pear
trees to his lodging in Cloverleigh.
II.
Most of our lives are Bitter-Sweet; but
If there is one period in it when the bitter
and sweet are 'superlative. it is when
love takes possession Of soul and body As
instruments whereon to play his mighty
prcludes.
Margaret Townsend had lived alone
almost all her life with her father. quiet
student. loving but his daughter and his
books. and so her life was full of asso-
Citations. but not of friends. None of the
bloom had been worn off her soul by that
playing at love called Irritation. She had
read. with a certain solemnty, some old
books wherein mention was made of men
who had died and done other things for
love; and she may have had dreams on
bit SuptttA. pub th' 80
dreams generally are.
Her father had taught her Greek. and
40 '.she chanced upon the poets" and their
thoughts had given flavor to her own.
Some time before this had come Illness
it had seemed at one moment as if she
must cross the narrow bound of time into
the wide spaces of eternity; but slowly
death had let 90 its hold. and she was
s,t,a 10,
the quaint old Devonshire fishing village.
perched in the rift of headland among
ancestral trees and bowers of ash and ap-
pie and pear.
1t is unique. this village. with its hun
dred steps leading down to the quay and
the shingly shore. The houses rise one
above the other, and the quaint rooms in
them are let. in summer. to visitors with
good walking nowers. Its only inn is a
temple of bric-a-bric, and, in summer. is
crowded with pilgrims visiting one of the
shrines of nature. In this sequestered
solitude the father and daughter and DIR.
John Enderby were at present the only
strangers. and the Young doctor. after two
or three days limped into Margaret's sun
lit sitting-room. into which the light fill
tered through net work of budding ap-
pie boughs. Here he would sit and watch
Margaret at work. or listen to her as she
read some Old World book to her father,
her fresh Young voice contrasting with
the oft times Grabbed style, and as he thus
watched her she grew inexpressibly
pleasant to him. Pleasant, and that was
all.
But to Margaret! Without one word of
warning had come the crowning affection
of her life. "Heaven lies about us in our
infancy" then fades away. But once
more 1t lies about the man and woman in
the mellow time of youth with beauty
that baby eyes never beheld, and earth
borrows of this heavenly light. Did ever
such sunlight pass through the rosy film
of the apple blossoms that nestled against
the wall and made a bower before Marga-
ret's window? And as for the blue bay
cleaning below-was it really so
so cruel after all Did so many husbands
and fathers and sons lie tossing in its
depths? 1t looked SO caressing. washing
the feet Of the red cliffs where the green
cry crept down to meet it.
John was free to come and go as he
liked in the blossom-screened room, hold
ing learned converse with Mr.. Townsend.
meeting his daughter in the woods, now
fully leafed. sometimes helping her over
the rocks in search Of anemoues On fine