Your thought bounds away from the beauty of sky and lake, and fastens
upon the ideal which your dreamy humors cherish. The very glow of
pursuit heightens your fervor,--a fervor that dims sadly the new-wakened
memories of home. The southern gates of Champlain, those fir-draped
Trosachs of America, are passed, and you find yourself, upon a golden
evening of Canadian autumn, in the quaint old city of Montreal.
Dalton with his party has gone down to Quebec. He is to return within a
few days on his way to Niagara. There is a letter from Nelly awaiting
you. It says:--"Mother is much more feeble: she often speaks of your
return in a way that I am sure, if you heard, Clarence, would bring you
back to us soon."
There is a struggle in your mind: old affection is weaker than young
pride and hope. Moreover, the world is to be faced; the new scenes
around you are to be studied. An answer is penned full of kind
remembrances, and begging a few days of delay. You wander, wondering,
under the quaint old houses, and wishing for the return of Dalton.
He meets you with that happy, careless way of his,--the dangerous way
which some men are born to, and which chimes easily to every tone of the
world,--a way you wondered at once; a way you admire now; and a way that
you will distrust as you come to see more of men.
Pages:
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155