Part 3 (2/2)

”Prom my childhood,” continued Susan, ”I have been among the people of my race, but not of them. I have stood alone, in a shroud of thoughts, which were not their thoughts; but few understand me, my dear, for I live in an ideal world, and whatever calls me back to this gross creation, makes me perfectly miserable: say, my dear Miss Lindsay, are these your feelings?”

”Alas, no,” replied Emma; ”I love the world too well, and have spent many wretched, sleepless nights because I was unwilling to leave it: but that time is pa.s.sed. If I have any fear now, it is that my work on earth will not be well done before I am called away.”

Susan turned a wondering eye upon the pale, weary-looking girl, and for a moment forgot her intense sympathy for herself. ”You are sick,” said she, with an expression of real interest and concern.

”Yes,” replied Emma, ”that is evident. My friends have tried to hide it from me, and from themselves. They have sent me from place to place, but death is following me everywhere. _I_ never felt it so surely as I do this morning:” and Emma laid her head upon the moss-turf beside Susan. She looked like a faded lily, as she lay there; her white dress scarcely more white than the forehead and cheek upon which her dark damp hair rested heavily. Susan took a handkerchief from her pocket, and wrung it in the clear, cool waters of the brook, and kneeling upon the ground beside Emma, wiped her pale face, and tucking up her sleeves, chafed her poor withered arms, until Emma revived.

”Thank you,” said she; ”I was a little faint. Mamma is so desirous for me to exercise in the open air, that I go every day to the farthest limit of my strength. I was not able to climb that hill this morning.”

Susan made no reply, but sat looking mournfully into her face. All the morning she had been weeping over the sorrows of an imaginary being whom she had found in a novel wandering about, and falling at every step into the most superlative misery. It was hard for Susan to read, and not identify herself with this beautiful suffering shadow; but now she had come from her ideal world, and was forced, for a time, to forget both the shadow and herself. Close to her father's old farm-house, and in the woods of Sliver-Crook, she saw what, described in a romance, would have been pathetic enough, but which, seen in reality, called out from her heart the good rational sympathy which, though buried in sentimental rubbish, was not dead.

”Do you really think,” said she, bending over Emma, ”that you must----”

Emma smiled, as she replied, ”What difficulty we find in p.r.o.nouncing that word! One would think that there was a sting in the very _name_ of death: and so there is, Miss Sliver, until G.o.d gives us the victory, through Jesus Christ.”

”Jesus was a beautiful character,” said Susan, taking up Emma's Bible, beside which the red-covered novel lay blus.h.i.+ng as if in an agony of shame. ”I have often felt,” she continued, ”a strong desire to visit the places hallowed by his personal ministry; the garden where he kept his sad night-watch, Miss Lindsay; the Mount of Olives, and the clear-gliding Kedron. O,” continued Susan, enthusiastically, ”I should like to stand where the Marys stood, on the dreadful day of his crucifixion, and visit the tomb where they went, bearing sweet spices.

O, wouldn't it be delightful?”

”Yes,” replied Emma, languidly; ”but we should not find him there now,--upon Calvary, or the Mount of Olives; by the sweet-gliding Kedron, or in the Garden of Gethsemane,--unless we were like him, meek and lowly, and such can find him anywhere, Miss Sliver. The spirit of Jesus would hallow _this_ book, making it blessed and holy like the waters of Kedron; and this high hill might be to us what the Mount of Olives was to the disciples--for that was sacred only because Jesus talked with them there. Dora told me last night that the Holy Spirit could make any place holy.”

Susan was silent. Emma had spoken words to which something within bore witness as truth, and she knew not what to say. Emma, too, lay musing for some time; and then raising her head, and resting it upon her hand, she said: ”How wonderfully self-denying Jesus was, Miss Sliver. n.o.body appreciated the Saviour when he was upon earth, not even the disciples; yet this was nothing to him, for he did not seek his own glory. He went cheerfully about his Father's work, never thinking of himself, and never feeling himself degraded by the presence of a poor, sick, sinful mult.i.tude.”

”I know it,” said Susan, thoughtfully; ”but the world will never see another Jesus, Miss Lindsay.”

”O, it will, it will,” replied Emma, with animation. ”When human hearts are willing to let his Spirit dwell in them, human hands will do the work which Jesus did; and so his kingdom will come, and the world will see and acknowledge their King.”

A shrill blast from a horn, at the farm-house across the brook, now interrupted their conversation.

”It is time for me to go home,” said Susan; ”but I shall not consent to leave you to climb that hill again today--you must go to our house, and stay until you are rested.”

This kind decision of manner, so unlike anything she had before seen in Susan Sliver, quite interested Emma. She did not feel averse to a further acquaintance, and taking her arm they crossed the rustic bridge, and were soon at the farm-house. An elderly man, wearing a Quaker hat, had just entered, and Emma heard him talking to a good-looking old lady, who, both warm and tired, was vehemently beating a minute pudding. ”Thee looks tired, Sarah; where are the girls?”

”Can't say where Susan is,” was the reply. ”Margaret is up stairs, sewing.”

”Well, there is a time for everything, and the girls are old enough to know it; but here comes Susan. Come, Susan, thee ought to be helping thy mother these hot days; but who is this friend?”

”Mrs. Lindsay's daughter,” said Susan.

Emma might have saved her graceful courtesy this time; for the old gentleman did not return it by taking off his broad-brimmed hat: yet she felt the sincere politeness of his manner, as, offering his hand, he said, ”I am glad to see thee, child; how is thy mother?”

”Very well, thank you,” said Emma, taking a seat upon the cus.h.i.+oned chair, which Susan brought and placed near the open door.

The old lady was not less cordial in her manner toward their visitor; but she seemed in a great hurry to get dinner upon the table, for the men were coming from the field, and the sun had crossed the noon-mark.

Emma was glad to see Susan taking hold to help her mother; and presently Margaret came down stairs, dressed a little too much, and a little too girlish, but appearing very kind and good-natured.

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