at I never entirely
lost the pain, was the thought that never before had I failed to watch
the first uncoilings of the fern-fronds beneath the dead leaves of the
former year; the willow catkins, the fragrant arbutus, all the signs of
inspiration from the earliest breaths of spring in the hedges and
meadows and woods about Belfield. But still, as I lay on my sofa and
tried four times a day the great feat of crossing our parlor from wall
to wall, I could guess all the beautiful things that were going on out
of doors, and I was happier for the coming summer-time, for is any state
so sombre, any grief so unquenchable, any burden of despondency so
oppressive, but that the divine gladness of the awakening earth stirs it
with its revivifying breath? My misfortune did not inspire me with
mystical, heavenly resignation, but I began to be able to look its
results in the face.

"Nothing so hampers us in life as the failure to accept our fate with
courage," my guardian said to me once. "Be as brave as you can. Do you
remember what Medea says in reply to that cruel reminder of her
losses?--'Husband, countrymen, riches, all gone from you: what remains?'
She answers, 'Medea remains.'"

It had become evident to me, without interrogations on my part, that my
mother and Mr. Floyd had resigned at least all present hopes of
marriage. All their thoughts seemed to be centred in me, and I felt
myself a hinderance in their plans of happiness. So, while I was still
holding my guardian's hand, I reminded him of our talk on the bluff that
far-off November morning.

"Do you think I would take your mother from you too, my dear boy?" said
he bluntly. "Do you think she would come to me if I wanted to take her?"

"But it seems too much of a sacrifice."

"Get well, then, at once," Mr. Floyd exclaimed, laughing. "As soon as
you can walk up the church-aisle all the Belfield wedding-bells shall
ring their loudest."

Jack Holt brought me some white roses one day in June, which I knew
could never have grown anywhere in Belfield except against the eaves of
a certain Gothic cottage. I asked him if Georgy sent them, and why she
never came to see me.

"I have wondered too why she never comes," he returned; "and I have
asked her, but she tells me her mother bids her stay away from you."

"Georgy was not used to be so obedient," said I. "Ask her to come. I
suppose she thinks I am frightful to behold, but I fancy I'm much the
same, unless I begin to look