Again your eye rests upon that figure of Madge, and upon her face,
wearing an even gentler expression as she sees you sitting pale and
feeble by the old hearth-stone. She brings flowers--for Nelly: you beg
Nelly to place them upon the little table at your side. It is as yet the
only taste of the country that you can enjoy. You love those flowers.
After a time you grow strong, and walk in the fields. You linger until
nightfall. You pass by the cottage where Madge lives. It is your
pleasantest walk. The trees are greenest in that direction; the shadows
are softest; the flowers are thickest.
It is strange--this feeling in you. It is not the feeling you had for
Laura Dalton. It does not even remind of that. That was an impulse, but
this is growth. That was strong, but this is strength. You catch sight
of her little notes to Nelly; you read them over and over; you treasure
them; you learn them by heart. There is something in the very writing
that touches you.
You bid her adieu with tones of kindness that tremble,--and that meet a
half-trembling tone in reply. She is very good.
----If it were not too late!
IV.
_Manly Love._
And shall pride yield at length!
----Pride!--and what has love to do with pride? Let us see how it is.
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