Yet Mrs. Sandal was at Up-Hill all the afternoon;
and, though the squire did not get home until quite the darkening, he
went at once, without taking food or rest, to the dying man.
"Why, Barf is very near all the same as my own father," he said. And
then, in a lower voice, "and he may see my father before the strike of
day. I wouldn't miss Barfs last words for a year of life. I wouldn't
that."
It was a lovely night,--warm, and sweet with the scent of August lilies,
and the rich aromas of ripening fruit and grain. The great hills and the
peaceful valleys lay under the soft radiance of a full moon; and there
was not a sound but the gurgle of running water, or the bark of some
solitary sheep-dog, watching the folds on the high fells. Sophia and
Julius were walking in the garden, both feeling the sensitive
suggestiveness of the hour, talking softly together on topics people
seldom discuss in the sunshine,--intimations of lost powers, prior
existences, immortal life. Julius was learned in the Oriental view of
metempsychosis. Sophia could trace the veiled intuition through the
highest inspiration of Western thought.
"It whispers in the heart of every shepherd on these hills," she said;
"and they interpreted for Mr. Wordsworth the dream of his own soul."
"I know, Sophia. I lifted the book yesterday: your mark was in it." And
he recited in a low, intense voice,--
"'Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:'"
"Oh, yes!" answered Sophia, lifting her dark eyes in a real enthusiasm.
Pages:
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71