tears, and I was even glad to see them. She clung to my arm, shivering. "Poor Madalena! poor mother!" said I, to break the long silence that held us, as we walked along. "Happy mother!" she cried quickly, turning her flushed face toward me. "Happy mother! she waits to see her child, her husband again. In her heart, in her faith, she possesses them forever. Happy Madalena!" ively I felt the vanity of all my logic, and I "Why, a little while ago, and for even the clearest-headed, purest-hearted believer, I could feel nothing but a proud, self-gratulating compassion. Out of the strength of my intellect I pitied all those who were so weak as to have faith. And now-now-I envy-I would give my whole life to be able to feel, for one little minute, like that poor mother, this morningpraying at the foot of a wooden image. Ay, though her child died-though it died!" Her voice rose, strained to a pitiful shrillness. "For she believes she shall see it again. To herhusband, child, and all the glory and beauty of life, are immortal. Is it ignorance that gives to people such wealth as this? Husband, teach "A childish faith, that speaks in parrot me to be ignorant! Unlearn in me all that prayers, my Paula." "Ah, she prays, she believes! It saves her heart from breaking. But I-I can not-I can not pray, even for my little unborn child." The words were uttered rapidly, almost as if without her will. Then she was silent, and I also. We reached home, and sat long in the balcony, watching the purple sea deepen to black in the twilight. Stars came out; and the incessant murmur of the waves striving against the shore made solemn music. I stole my arm round my wife's waist. Then, and not till then, a wild sob was suffered to break through her self-imposed calm. Her head drooped on my shoulder, and she wept freely and sweetly. Yes, sweetly. They were not the burning, passionate tears she had been used to shed of old, but a very woman's torrent of tender, blessed rain, that relieved and freshened the air in falling. In the midst of them, she faltered forth some words. I bent my ear to catch. "If-if, when our Wish is born, any ill should come near it, what should I do? Where should we look ?" has entered into my mind through this false, treacherous Reason, that deserts me in my need. People go mad sometimes; what is intellect, or knowledge, or learning, or the wisdom we have thought so wise, worth then?" I essayed to calm her. She listened while I spoke to her in the old way, went over again the old arguments that once she had helped me to advance and support. I thought I succeeded in impressing her; for when I had ended, she only replied by a quiet sigh. "You have been too much excited to-day, my Paula. To-morrow you will see things differently." "Shall I?" she said, absently. And she rose from her seat, and leaned over the balcony, looking out into the starlit night. There was silence, except for the wistful, everdesiring voice of the sea. The soft air just moved the thin folds of her robe, and in the dimness I could discern the outline of her face -most beautiful, most pure-defined by the heavy braids of black hair. Somehow, the quietude of the time, the conflicting influences that were about me, stole into my heart with a For the first time in my I tried to soothe her, as one would soothe a strange tenderness. frightened child. "Lewis! Lewis! I am so afraid-so afraid!" She pronounced the word in a tone that lent it new and deepened meaning. "I never feared before like this, even for you. Teach me to be brave-teach me-not to care." man's life, I wished-ay, I wished- That was, as I have said, our last day in Italy. Next morning, we departed for England. I did not take Paula back to the dreary "You are brave, my darling—you were al- London house. Instead, I had caused to be ways brave." put in readiness for us a cottage on the outskirts of the town, where, amidst the green fields, with fresh air blowing among the many trees of the garden, there was a pleasant feeling of healthfulness and quiet. Here, one soft Sep "I know I was. Tell me some of the old things I used to say, and believed that I believed. They were the first links of sympathy between us-do you remember? Our mutual scorn of traditions-of the slavery of opinion;tember day, our child was born. our yearning for truth and freedom. How Well named Our Wish was our fair little often we have talked of all these things! We baby girl. In the joy of her coming, all disthought alike, felt alike, and it strengthened quiet, all doubt, all pain, was lost. Like the me to feel myself always so close beside you. fevered visions of a past night, all remembrance Why, how have I gone astray, so that you can of by-gone heaviness and trouble seemed to desupport and strengthen me no longer? Lewis, part from us. A new and happier life seemed Lewis, bring me back again!" opening to us with the advent of this tiny, helpBut I could not. At that moment, instinct- less one. A wonderful strength seemed aroused in Paula. With returning convalescence, there came to her more than renewed vigor, both of mind and body. A healthful brightness shone over her face; her voice sounded once more clear and ringing. With her baby in her arms, she often looked to me completely, perfectly happy. And by virtue of some mysterious power that the simple fact of motherhood would seem to exert over all pure woman-nature, I believe she was so, nay, that it was not possible for her to be otherwise, just then. It lasted, or I thought so, for many months. Our Wish throve, and grew apace, like other babies, doubtless, though to Paula, and to me, too, it seemed a perpetual, special miracle that was working under our eyes. No very terrible anxieties marred our happiness in her babyhood. Her first serious ailment came when she was nearly twelve months old. Then, indeed, it was a dark time, and the desperate look I knew of yore began to shadow Paula's face. But the illness was passed safely, and the gloom went with it. But from that time there was a change. Hitherto, the child had almost been a part of herself. On her lap, in her arms, or at her feet, Wish had always been with her. The helpless dependency of her babyhood had been to the mother the dearest, sweetest blessing of her life. But from this time, every month, every week, seemed to take away from the blessing, and render it less perfect. And as little Wish progressed in strength and growth, and learned first to creep along the floor, then to stand on her timid, staggering little feet, and at last to walk or run, fearlessly and alone-as all these epochs in baby life, one by one, came to pass, and the child's existence became daily more separate from her own, Paula's complete joy faded, her contentment fled. An everrestless anxiety began to rack her heart. leave the child, even for an hour, was, I knew, utter misery to her. Yet, the period of helpless, clinging infancy being over, there was no excuse for the mother to neglect other duties in her constant devotion to her child; and Paula was too inexorably conscientious to give way to those pangs of yearning that would continually have detained her with her little one. To Still, for all the pain, there were many halcyon intervals of happiness, both for Paula and me. On summer afternoons, when we sat under the trees in our sunny garden, with Wish playing at our feet, plucking up the grass and flowers, and bringing them to us to see, we would plan her future; guess what she would be like as a woman, and imagine her, a wife and a mother, bringing her children about us when we were old people. That was happiness. The vanity of "planning," the over-daring of looking forward so far, never seemed to strike us. We allowed ourselves to dream and prefigure thus to each other; it was our favorite pastime. Pleasant it was to look up from our murmured musings to the child herself. She was very quiet always, and liked nothing better than sitting on the grass, crooning softly to herself, over the daisies or the flowers we had gathered for her, often stroking them with her tiny fingers, as if they were sentient things. She was a happy little creature; childish ills seemed to come lightly to her; she never pined or fretted, and seldom cried with the passionate grieving or anger that seems natural to most young children. Her little life flowed on serenely, equably; and we watched it and were content. It was not either of us who first noted the fact, that our Wish, if she were never peevish, restless, or unhappy, like other children, also never showed any of the glee, of the overwhelming life that is so manifest in "other children." I remember the day that my friend pointed out this fact to me. The child (she was then nearly four years old) was sitting in her accustomed place at her mother's feet, her radiant little head leaning against her mother's skirt. Such a picture they made! my Paula, with her queenly head bent low over her darling, and Wish, so fair, so exquisitely, purely fair, with her baby fingers busied among the colored worsteds she had chosen for playthings. "How quiet she always is!" said my friend, an eminent physician, who lived near us. His low tone, his intent look at the child, startled me, and I glanced hastily toward Paula. She was smiling happily; I could not tell why her smile smote me with a sense of pain just then. But Doctor Lethby had his hand on the door, and I followed him from the room. "Yes," said I, indifferently; "little Wish is a quiet child. Only children are apt to be so, I suppose." "How old is she-nearly four years?" I nodded. He was silent; but I felt urged on to speak. "She is backward with her tongue, too, which makes her seem quieter. She can only say a few words very imperfectly." "I know." right-with the brain. In the same way, There is some defect trees, the greenest nooks. in the intellect. I fear so. I am not yet sure. harmoniously-assorted colors, graceful forms, Have courage." and beautiful music, always attracted her while all that was less than beautiful she turned from in utter and spontaneous rejection. I bit my lip till the blood flowed freely, and clenched my hands firmly on the chair I held by. My first impulse was to strike down the man who told me this terrible truth. For I felt it was truth. I had no doubt-no hope-not for a single instant. I knew it was as he said. "Don't tell your wife," he went on, seeing I said nothing, "till the fact is ascertained beyond doubt. Remember, there is hope. I have been mistaken before, when I felt as assured of other things. The suspicion rests on my judgment alone. Nevertheless, it is well you should know that you should recognize the possibility -you understand? otherwise, I would not have told you. But precaution, taken in time, may do much." The mad, animal instinct of passionate retaliation had passed by. I took the hand he held to me and grasped it firmly. I thanked him for his kindness—his consideration-in a firm voice. I would not tell my wife; I would wait-guided by him-I would-; but there he was without the door, and I closed it on him quickly and went back to my study. I sat there, thinking, till Paula came to seek me. I had wisely planned not to let her know, or suspect-planned like a man, not reckoning on the woman's instinct that is as a second soul with her, and, where she strongly loves, would seem to be almost omniscient. The instant her eyes struck on my face, her own look answered mine. She was on my breast, entreating, in her low, eager voice, that would not be denied nor hushed-entreating, entreating to know all. What ailed me? What ill was impending over me-or the child? Her voice rose to a pitiful cry on those words, the child. r; But She spoke very seldom, though her utterance was distinct and quite free from defect. speech seemed unnatural and painful to her; and unless all other and more habitual means of making herself understood failed her, she scarcely ever voluntarily resorted to it. I think, had it not been for her mother's persistent efforts, her pitifully-earnest, never-wearying endeavors, first in teaching the child, and then in inducing her to practice the utterance of the words she had taught-but for this, our Wish would never have taken human speech upon her. As it was, it needed all Paula's care and persuasion to prevent the knowledge slipping from her. The silent, quiet child, seemed herself to feel no need of it. Enough for her to cling about us, to nestle in our bosoms, and look up at us with her eyes eloquent of love, or wonder, or distress. Pain itself could not grieve her. Once when she slipped down and cut her arm, while Paula was in anguish as she bound up the ugly wound that looked so red and terrible on her fair white flesh, the child herself sat calmly on her mother's lap, and looked at her disturbed face in surprise. "Does it hurt my darling much ?" "No." A minute afterward she added slow ly, "It hurts you, mamma." And the per- She never cried, or complained, She lay on the sofa quite still, except when she changed the position of her bandThen she looked up at me-holding my eyes aged arm, looking out upon her mother and with hers by her straight, unflinching gaze-myself with steadfast, grave eyes. Ever and and she listened while I told her. IV. anon Paula left her work to hang over her, caress the shining hair, or cover the pale little face with kisses-any thing to let free some of the great passion of tenderness that was forever throbbing at her heart. And then Wish would respond, with her sweet, soft kisses, in silence. But when I went up to her, the dubious expression in her face waxed more intense; and then came the slow, quiet utterance, which, always to create its own fit surrounding stillness. And the weeks grew into months, and the months into years, and little Wish grew tall and fair, like the arum lilies she loved to peer into with her wistful blue eyes. Wistful eyes, indeed, they were; as though perpetually yearning for what they could never find. As she became older, the peculiarity of her mind became more evident. It was as if some thin but inex-perhaps because it was so rare, seemed to me pugnable mist had been set between her perceptions and her comprehension-nothing more. Nothing more! It was enough. Sometimes a slender rift seemed to open, and let in the light with a sudden, sharp gleam; and then shut close again, more hopelessly, inexorably than before. At such times the child was sadder than her wont. Usually she maintained the same quiet but mirthless serenity that had marked her infancy. Her senses were acute, and in their gratification she evinced a delicate, eclectic refinement at which I often marvelled. She seemed instinctively to be drawn to the most perfect flower in the garden, the fairest | "This"—and her slight gesture told me what she meant. "The pain is in the wound the sharp stone made." After a pause, she shook her head with the old wistful glance. "I think mamma put it in," she said, presently. "Mamma would not hurt my Wish for all the world." "Who is it hurts Wish ?" And I said again, "The sharp stone;" but she only turned aside her asking eyes, and dropped into silence. Over such instances as these how Paula and I pondered! How we treasured them in our remembrance, cheering ourselves with the thought of them often, when a long interval of strange, unchildish quietude and muteness had almost slain the embryo Hope in our hearts! When she returned to us in the evening, we both thought the visit had done her good. There was more vitality in the little face; and its usual paleness had given place to a delicate color that we liked to see. But she was very quiet and silent; and, as she sat on Paula's knee for half an hour before her bed-time, she replied chiefly by gestures to our questions concerning her visit. We gathered that she had The child was always with her mother. She been very content there, and would like to go did not care to play with other children; from again-that she loved Kate and Mrs. Lethby, their boisterous games she instinctively drew and the canary-birds and the pictures. When aside, neither could she join in their chatter we mentioned these last (for Dr. Lethby had a over pictures and story-books. For, though few very fine paintings hanging in his diningWish would soon be nine years old, all our room), she turned round suddenly, with a wonpains had been ineffectual to make her compre- derfully bright gleam of consciousness or rehend any thing of the mysteries of the alpha-membrance shining in her face; but it seemed bet. All was dark to her there; she could not to pass before she could give it words. penetrate even so far as the threshold of earthly learning. Neither did she seem to comprehend or be interested in any of the usual interests of children. The stories they repeated to her sometimes aroused no feeling in her, but Paula and I knew what she liked better. She would listen to us for hours together, while we told her long, dreamy tales of flowers and birds, and clouds; or said to her, over and over again, musical stanzas, not the sense but the sound of which appeared to enthrall her in a species of fascination. To wander about the garden, looking at the flowers and into them, in her never-ceasing but inscrutable quest after we knew not what; to listen to the birds, and the wind, and the rain, and the busy little meadowstreams; to watch the clouds, and tree-tops, and the familiar faces about her; and sometimes to listen to us, as I have said-these were her pleasures, and in them her life seemed to pass serenely on. She never needed playmates or other companions; she never seemed to be less lonely than when alone. Thus, as I have said, she was seldom with other children, though our friend Dr. Lethby's family lived so near us. But one spring it happened that his little daughter Kate had an illness, and for many weeks afterward was too delicate to go out of doors or play with the other children. In this state the little invalid evinced a singular and persistent desire to have Wish with her. One day that Paula took the child in with her to Mrs. Lethby's, Kate would with difficulty be persuaded to let her go again; and the next day came a petition that Wish might be suffered to go and spend that day with the ailing little girl, who "fretted after her continually." Children often have such fancies, especially when they are sick; and Paula and I could hardly refuse to indulge this one. But it seemed strange, and painful, to take our child into another house, and leave her there, even though she herself seemed satisfied to remain, and stood quietly beside Kate, submissive to have her hands taken, her hair played with, and to be embraced and fondled to the heart's content of her companion. Presently Paula took her away. She had wished me good-night. Her sweet, childlike kiss still lingered on my lips. I resumed my book; but, after ten minutes' abstracted poring over it, some memoranda to make, some authorities to consult from the bookcase in our room, led me up stairs. The room communicated with the smaller chamber where Wish slept. The door was open between the two, and the light streamed through. I went and lit the lamp by the bookcase, and commenced my search for the needed volume. Paula's voice occasionally sounded from the inner room, where she was undressing the child. Then I was startled by the sweet, clear, little voice of Wish herself: "Mamma-I know!" "What do you know, darling?" "I know it! I know who made the flowersand the birds-and the sky-and the grass-" She stopped as if breathless, though she had spoken slowly, as usual. There came no answer from the mother. The silence was again lightly stirred by the child's voice : "Why did you never tell me of God?", Again there was a pause. "Kate asks God to take care of her, and her mamma and papa. I will too." "No, no; not at my knees-not there!" I heard Paula mutter. "Is it wrong-is it wrong? Is God a wrong thing?" "Hush-hush! Nay, my own darling; it is not wrong. Look up! look up! Mamma can not bear to hear Wish cry." But the passion of weeping, so rare in the child, was not easily assuaged. "Mamma, mamma! I thought you would be glad. Wish was so glad." For a long time I listened to Paula, as she strove to soothe and console her. Then I went down, my book in my hand, and waited for her coming. She entered the room with the look on her face that I was prepared to see-the look that had not rested there for many years. met her outstretched hands, and answered the look; and then she dropped by my side, and hid her face. I "Is she asleep?" I asked her. "Yes, Lewis. Her little voice is ringing in my ears now. Such a little, innocent voice to utter words like those! Lewis, Lewis! what does it mean?" "She has learned from Kate Lethby the words she used. The idea is new to her, and she caught it at once, like a child. That is all." "Ay, but it is not all, Lewis; it is not all. It seemed as if the thought had been sleeping in her mind before now. It is not newly born; it is only awakened. And I-I must crush it back. I could do no more than strike it away from her. And she cried as she never cried before in all her life. Her tears rent my heart." "I know; I can guess it, Paula." "You can not; it is not in a man's soul to tell the agony of mine. I am her mother; and I have stabbed her with her first grief! Never in all her little life before has she shed tears like those." "It is a good sign. It renews our hopes," I said, with resolved cheerfulness. But my wife turned from me in bitterness. "What hopes? Oh! Lewis, is it not mockcry in us to desire so earnestly for our child the strength and clearness of intellect that only brings doubt and misery to ourselves? Let her remain as she is my innocent, trusting angel! She is wiser than we. Sometimes I believe in my inmost heart that she knows more than we -that her helpless, childish trust is nearer the Truth than all our doubts." "That is not reasonable, Paula,” I said. Away with this cold logic!" she returned, almost fiercely; "it speaks to my ears, and not to my soul. Lewis, I can not choose but cling to my little one's sweet hands; they draw me toward her, no less in spirit than in body. She is holy, and pure, and true. What am I that I dare to dispute against her instincts? Let me follow her." "I would not prevent you if I could," I answered, sadly. "If you can believe, Paula, so happier for you." "You say so?" she said, in an awed tone, looking into my face. "Even I say so. Yes-I have not ceased to be a skeptic, Paula; but I no longer exult in my skepticism. As men grow older, I suppose it is so. Doubt, after all, may be a harder tyrant than belief. If will could bestow on me a creed, I should be no unbeliever now; but reason is strong, and will not bend. I can not; I can not " Paula drew closer to me in silence, as I abruptly broke off. There was a long pause before I spoke again. "If it be possible for you to go out of the cold shadow that I am prisoned in-go, Paula. It would make me happier to see you in the sunshine. Forgive me, I know I have kept you from it hitherto. I did my share of the work." "No, no, no!" she cried, vehemently. "Husband, husband, I will not have you say so; I She melted into passionate tears, and we said no more. It was the next day to this-a bright June day-I went early to London on my usual business. I said nothing to Paula about the child, nor did I ask if she was to go again to little Kate. Wish was her own quiet, noiseless self again that morning. She sat in her customary place, at that side of the table whence she could look out through the window on to the garden. Her clear eye seldom left that outlook, and I fancied her face brightened, momently, in the glory of the sunshine that was flooding earth and sky so graciously. Her little footsteps followed me down the garden path; her little hand detained me at the gate. She lifted her face with the familiar gesture, and as I bent down to take her in my arms and kiss her, she said "Wish is glad-so glad!" "I don't know." And the yearning rose from the depths of her eyes. She looked round her searchingly at radiant flowers, trees, and sky, as if asking the mystery of their brightness, then flung her arms round my neck, and nestled her head in my bosom. "Wish is glad," she said again. What moved the child to this gladness, or to utter it in words on that especial morning? Shall I ever know? The remembrance of her sweet look, the feeling of her dear arms round my neck, sank down into my heart. I forgot nothing of the brief episode during all the day. It followed me into my usual avocations; it made the time beautiful to me. As I went home at evening, I thought of it. It was a thought in harmony with the ineffable purity of joyousness that seemed to pervade the world that evening. Clear and rosy was the western sky, though the sun wanted half an hour to its settingrichly sounded the blackbird's song; the green fields and the sloping hill beyond, with its broidery of woodland and its crown; the old gray church tower and quaint wooden spire rising from it, all seemed to me lustrous that evening, as if the air around were something more than air, and illumined all that was beheld through it. So I thought as I turned down the green lane leading to our own cottage; as I walked along the garden path, where Wish's footsteps had followed me that morning. I entered at the open door and passed into the general sitting room. No one was there; but Paula's needle-work was scattered on the table, and a bunch of flowers arranged as Wish loved to arrange them lay on the window-sill. I took them up, gratefully inhaling their fresh fragrance, while looking out anew upon the radiant hill, and the western sky, where the sun was partially cov |