CHAPTER X. ONCE MORE. And years have passed away since then, and many a joy and care Have filled by turns thy mother's heart, in which thou hadst no share; But still within her heart she keeps one sacred spot for thee, The world has kindly dealt, mother, by the child thou lov'st so well; Thy prayers have circled round her path, and 'twas their holy spell Which made that path so dearly bright, which showed the roses there, Which gave the light, and cast the balm, on every breath of air. I bear a happy heart, mother, a happier never beat, Anon. MINNA saw her mother the next morning, and felt a deep glow of satisfaction on perceiving the pleased smile that lighted the pale face, when turned to meet the daughter who had been so little her own. But with the thought of death, and the strange realities it brings, the dearer truth of mother's love seemed to gain new force, and she had there, on that silent pillow, reviewed many scenes of Minna's infancy, and thought of her as the golden-haired child, the parting with whom had caused so many regrets to her absent Margaret for Mrs. Raymond's heart often recurred to Margaret, and with her the thought of Minna was connected now as in bygone years. She lay gazing with love and admiration on Minna's face, and whispered her thankfulness for being permitted to see her again, and then making Minna kneel by the side of the bed, so that her face was on a level with the pillow, Mrs. Raymond talked to her for some time in a low but distinct tone. It was the first time Minna had had a confidential conversation with her mother; but now it seemed quite natural, for the fifteen years that had passed since she left home were forgotten, and Mrs. Raymond only felt that Minna was her own child and Margaret's darling. 66 Oh, Minna, I must tell you, as no one else can, what Margaret felt for you. You will see her again, though perhaps not for a long time, but you must not meet as strangers. She was more to you than I could be, even while you were still my own child; and, though you cannot remember it, I tell you now, that you may know by my word, and never forget it. I should have blessed God that I might see her once more, had He so willed it; but she will be glad, very glad, dear, to hear that you were with me at last, and it will be a link between you-a link for grown-up life, that might have been wanting. When she returns to England, Minna, you must claim her as a sister; let her never think that in the brilliant prosperity which may be your lot, you do not want the friendship of the sister who would once have been willing to give up her own happiness for your sake, and, though you have friends now who love you as their own child, and who are firmly purposed never to forsake you, yet, life's changes are so unaccountable, so much may happen that none of us could ever foretell or provide for, that you may yet find in Margaret what You will seek her friendship, will find in no other. you not?" Minna promised willingly and heartily. you can "And you will write to her? Write while you are here." "I will, dearest mother. I will always look to her as to a true and unchanged friend; after all, we are sisters, so I have a right to her, and I love to think so." "Yes, you are sisters, though that tie has almost been broken," said Mrs. Raymond, in a sad tone. "No, dearest mother, not broken, that can never be. You did but lend me to Honoria; I am your own child still." "God bless you, dear! Yes, I lent you to Honoria, because I wished to give you a brighter lot than you would have had here; and you are very happy, my child; I have gained for you what I wished, have I not? Have you had a happy life, Minna?" And Mrs. Raymond looked an anxious inquiry into that fair young face. “Oh, yes, mamma, so happy, too happy; no life, I think, was ever what mine has been at Pentyre; I do not deserve it, and sometimes I think I ought not to be there. You do not know what a life of sunshine you chose for me, and my sisters would have been far more worthy." "Yes, you have been happy, thank God; and may If you it please Him to let your happy life continue. thank Him for it all, you are safe, dearest; but never forget to thank Him. While you have been absent all these years, I have never ceased praying for your happiness, and He has heard the prayer. Be sure, my darling, to ask Him for all you want, and never forget to thank Him. He will do you good and not evil all the days of your life;' it is your mother who bids you remember that always." Minna Mrs. Raymond laid her head back on the pillow, exhausted with the effort she had made to say to Minna what had been so much on her heart. remained watching till her mother fell asleep, when Rhoda came to take her usual place by the bedside, and Minna went to her own room. Margaret's room they had given her, and how glad she was to be alone there. She sat down to think, or rather to arrange her thoughts before writing to Lady Fortrose. But the task was not easy; it seemed already a long time since she had left her aunt; and yet only one day had passed; was it possible? "I feel quite a different person from what I did the day before yesterday," soliloquized Minna; "the day before yesterday what was I doing? Oh, the ice! Anne! Hazelby! the hiding-place afterwards! How quickly all was gone; yes, quite gone, it seemed!" and she looked round the room, and thought of Margaret. "Shall I see her again? and does she still care much about me? Her children now must have put me out of her heart, but I hope not quite. It is a great blessing to belong, really to belong, to people. I love my aunt; oh, so deeply, that I have wished I were her own child; I hope it is not wrong; but I never knew my own mother loved me so much," and the tears came into Minna's eyes, and rolled unchecked down her cheeks. "What a blessing that I could tell her I have been so happy; it would have grieved her to hear I had not; and yet-poor, dear mother! was it a mistake and shall I live to find it out? Thank God, I do not yet know it! Oh, no, I do not, indeed; I am not so ungrateful; and yet I almost feel as if Rhoda and Bessie were safer than I am; they are where God first placed them, and are happy and useful and contented. Happy! oh, but not as I have been! I always know when I am happy, and have such a living, clear consciousness of it, which seems to double its brightness. I never heard of a life going on like that always. My aunt is very happy, but then she had a sad childhood, for I have heard her say that when her father died, and Lady St. Melion married again, she felt as if she had nobody belonging to her, and she was very lonely and often unhappy till she married, and then, too, she felt so much about her very own relations, that was what made her first think of taking me. Then there is Beatrice, she is not particularly happy; nor Anne, certainly; and yet I am. I wonder if it will last? My dear mother almost seemed to doubt, though she wished it, and I feel afraid. I think there is truth in that line I read the other day— "There is even a happiness that makes the heart afraid." And with a grave shadow on her heart, Minna began her letter. She had much to tell. First, of course, of her safe and timely journey; and here she gave her aunt some idea of the pleasure Harry's society had been. Then followed a full account of her mother's |