Chapter V.

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume VI, Issue 26, 31 January 1871, Page 4

Chapter V.

THE OLD OLD STORY. More than a week had passed quietly by at Totara-nui. Den and Melville Ferrard, went home the day after the horse-muster-iug, and the shadows seemed lightened to the few who had seen them. The child was well again, and all things were pursuing their usual routine, when Sunday morning came, the very loveliest spring morning, a morning that had come a little before its time, ' and therefore was all the more welcome. The two Ferrards were expected that day, and Frank had just come home from the Matsons', certainly not in the most buoyant spirits, but not so broken-hearted as one might have expected from his own ideas on the subject. His nature was too volatile to feel grief deeply j and even the brightness of the day and the. tenderness of the earliest spring time, without his knowledge, soothed him. .On such temperaments as his all external things leave -their impress, unless some great event for the time absorbs • them, and great events don't come often in • a lifetime. Maggie felt only inclined for her own compauy ; so when prayers were over, putting on a dainty blue hood trimmed with swansdown, she took her way through the shrubbery, and crossing the capricious winding stream on a broad log, which answered the purpose of a bridge, she sauntered slowly along to a favorite resting-place of hers, which I think is worthy of description, though try as I may you will not see it with my eyes ; but I call to inspire me all the magic of . the place, the gleaming water, the slanting rays of mellow sun, the murmuring leaves and crested ferns, and if they fail to inspire , "me, then indeed I must be weak of tongue and pen. Here are great trees that, clothed with parasites, and pendent ferns, fluttering their green arms to and fro, hang over the rippling water. These are the mighty fathers of the forest. Beneath their shade nestle the tender nurslings, the young trees, the clustering ferns and mosses. All pressing forward to the water, they seem drooping lovingly, and the little ripples lift their cool lips to kiss them 'softly, and the gliding waters unceasingly murmurs' its sweet lullaby beneath them. The calm little pools are filled, with sweet deep shadows (like Maggie's eyes). Above are patches of bluish sky, and fleecy clouds float lazily along between the network of leaves and branches, while the sunbeams come slanting downwards amftng the trees, darting into the deepest shades, and, like the wand of a magician, turning all they touch to gold. ' And the water, oh you rippling little golden-tinted waves, you sleeping pools, " you jbauring cascades and tiny wavelets, inspire me. Let your sweet songs and murmurings sing in my heart, that my words may flow sweetly as your fairy current. Here it runs over a mosaic of gold, and brown, black, and silver, as the light gleams beneath the ripples. Here it is molten silver, a smooth, sparkling sheet; there it is fretted and foamed over the stones ; here it is a cool deep nook with mossy banks, a bath for the fairies ; there a brawling mimic cascade. Sometimes smooth and soft in the chequered light and shade, and farthest of all, resting for a time in a deep rouud pool, overhung by an immense "setoki," where the water runs in -with a silvery treble note, and away with a deep liquid bass voice. Frets of gold, bars of silver, glimmer of sunshine, patches of shade, fleets of leaves, armadas of bubbles, and above all the sweet perpetual rustling of the bright leaves, and the fresh liquid gurgle and plash of the water. " Are you enjoying it, Maggie ?" comes from a voice behind her, and she answers simply, "It is all so very good." There was no surprise in her voice, for she was thinking in that deep lull of thought that one sometimes falls into, when the voice of ' the one we think of comes, however unexpectedly, as but a fitting harmony to the ending. "Who have you been thinking of ? " again questions the voice of and Maggie makes no answer, i J.- '7" Why does she not resent his calling her :by her name ? What -right has he s to do : so ? ; ISone, but so it is; "Whenhe speaks again in a low passionate tone. v " My darling, I love you so much ; can you.love me a little ?"' '*!', Then she turns her ,^a_e to him, and the sweet depth of her eyes is full of an almost heavenly light, as she answers jOnly, -';*? I love i ypu, MelviUe, .. with all my r..xC_tea^.^.'^.;^er^ps;y|_iß frank" iconfession 7; i lflypii;- ha 4 &j^*s;k er T<?*9 e » ': and £^e^. those; never'waSy confession J'V^dV-jmJ^ girl an oie^estihessi iaii-,je^;&r<m^h all: her quiet-; i : .§^;aSi 'fipp^ jjet; $ s ' , %^^ I] 'fc ; P^ion- , : ateness, that makes you feel as you look at Stei£ ; tl_^^ ' -She does it with her whole soul, and nowl

in the dark grey eyes, dilated and full of'a great passion, you can read that this love of Maggie's will be; her. one idea, and all her youth amd strength will be spent on it. [ ,J Love scenes are only interesting to the principal peilbrmers in them, as a rule. Therefore >*ye will leave these two, Maggie and Melville, so different in their great absorbing feeling to our quiet, commonplace Patty and Den. But we must all live, hate, love, and be loved, according to our different measures, and comparisons are odious. Though Maggie and Melville felt more acutely by reason of their more sensitive natures, and though, once roused to a great passion, their whole future is •cast on that one die, and for them it is an all-absorbing, lifelong passion, still I say, though perhaps they as it were have a greater power of intensity in feeling ,j oy as well as sorrow, yet for this everyday old world a love like Patty's and Den's brings the most happiness. To be continued.