Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1895-08-13

had once loved the world and the gay
life Of London, but some untoward
event, coupled with radical love OF
retirement, had sent him into years OF
isolation at Greyhope.
His tutelar relations with Lali had
reopened many an old spring OF sensa-
ton and experience Her shy depend
ency, her innocent inquisitiyeness, had
searched out his remotest sympathies
In teaching her he had himself been re-
taught. Before she came he had been
satisfied with the quiet usefulness and
studious ease Of his life, but in her
presence something of his old youthful
ness came back, some reflection Of the
ardent hopes of his young manhood. He
did not notice the change in himself
He only knew that his life was very
full. He read later at nights. he rose
earlier in the morning, but unconscious
ly to himself he was undergoing
| change The more a mans sympathies
and emotions are active the less Is he
the philosopher. 1t is only when one
has withdrawn from the more personal
influence Of the emotions that ones phi
losophy may be trusted.
One may be interested in mankind
and still be philosophical-may be, as
it were, the priest and confessor To all
comers. But let one be touched III some
vital corner in ones nature, and the
high fauftless impartiality is gone. III
proportion as Richards interest III Lali
had grown, the universal quality Of his
sympathy had declined. Man is only
man. Not that his benefactions rs lord
bountiful in the parish had grown per
functory, but the calm detail Of his in
terest was not so definite. He was the
same, yet not the same
He was not aware of any difference
in himself He did not know that he
looked younger by 10 years. Such is the
effect Of mere personal sympathy upon
a man s look and bearing. When, there
fore, one bright May morning the fam.
lily at Groyhope, himself excluded, was
ready to start for London, he had no
thought but that he would drop back
into his old silent life as it was before
Lali came and his brothers child wa,
born. He was not conscious that he wa
very restless that morning. He scarcely
was aware that he had got up two
hours earlier than usual. AT the break
fast table he was cheerful and alert
After breakfast he amused himself II
playing with the child till the carriag,
was brought round. II was such n morn
ing as does not come dozen times q
year IN England The sweet moist air
blew from the meadows and up through
the lime troes with warm insinuatina
gladness The lawn sloped delightfully."-
away 70 the foworcd embrasures Of the
park, and fragrant abundance OF
flowers met the eye and cheered the
senses. While Richard loitered on the
steps with the child and It's nurse, more
excited than he knew, Lali came ont
and stood beside him. AT the moment
Richard was looking into the distance.
He did not hear her when she came.
She stood near him for moment and
did not speak Her eyes followed the
| direction Of his lock and idled tenderly
with the prospect before her. She did
not even notice the child. The same
thought was i'll the mind Of both-with
a difference. Richard was wondering
how any one could choose 10 change the
sweet dignity Of that rural life for the
faring, hurried delights Of London and
the season. He had thought this a thou
sand times, and yet, though he would
have been little willing TO acknowledge
il, his conviction was not so impregna-
bic a. il had been.
Mrs. Francis Armour was stepping
from the known 10 the unknown. She
was leaving the precincts of a life III
| which, socially, she had been born again.
Its sweetness and benign quietness had
all worked upon her nature and origin TO
change her. In that il was an outdoor
life, full Of freshness and open air Wig
or, il was not antagonistic TO her past.
Upon this sympathetic basis had been
imposed the conditions of fine social
decorum. The conditions must still ex-
ist. But how would il be when she was
withdrawn from this peaceful activity
Of nature and set down among those
garish lights" in Cavendish square aud
Piccadilly? She hardly knew TO what
she was going a. yet. There had been "A
few social functions at Groyhope since
she had come, but that could give her,
after all, but little idea Of the swing
and pressure of London life
At this moment she was lingering
over the scene before her. She was
wondering with the naive wonder OK m
awakened mind She had intended
many times Of late saying TO Richard
all the native gratitude she felt, yet
somehow she had never been able TO say
it. The moment of parting had come.
What are you thinking of, Rich
ard?" she said now.
He started ard turned toward her.
'T hardly know" he answered. My
thoughts We're drifting.
Richard, she said abruptly, Il
want to thank YOU.
"Thank me for what, Lali?' he ques-
| toned.
ITO thank you, Richard, for every
thing since / came, over three years
ago."
He broke out into soft little laugh
then, with his old good natured man
ner, caught her hand as he did the first
night she came to Greyhope, patted 1t
in a fatherly fashion and said: 1T Is
the wrong way about. Lali. ought to
be thanking you; not You me. Why,
look, what a stupid old fogy ! was then,
toddling about the place with too much
time OH my hands reading a lot and
forgetting everything, and here you
came in, gave me something to do, made
the little / know Of any use and ran a
pretty gold wire down the rusty fiddle
Of life. II there are any speeches OF
gratitude to be made, they are mine
they are mine.
Richard" she said very quietly and
gravely, II owe you more than | can
ever say-in English. You have taught
me to speak in your tongue enough for
all the usual things Of life, bat one can
only speak from the depths OF ones
heart in ones native tongue. And see, "
she added, with q painful little smile,