mes
to early youth, for to that, memories are like the light breezes of
April, with nothing but tender green foliage, and opening buds to
disturb. With youth the past is so close to the present, that thought
always leaps forward into the future, and in the first flush of
existence that is invariably beautiful. But it is a different thing when
life approaches its maturity. Then the spirit, laden down with events
that have culminated, and feelings that have been shaken by many a heart
storm, bends reluctantly to the tempest like the stately old forest
trees laden with foliage, which bow to nothing but the inevitable
tornado.

Mabel Harrington left the old Mansion House with a quicker movement and
more rapid step than was natural to her, unless some strong feeling was
aroused, or some important aim to be accomplished. At such times her
action was quick, almost imperious, and all the evidences of an ardent
nature, fresh as youth and strong as maturity, broke forth in each
movement of her person and in every thought of her mind.

She walked more and more rapidly as the distance between her and the
house increased, for the open air and wider country gave freedom to her
spirit. As she walked her earnest grey eyes turned from the river to the
sky and abroad upon the hills, as if seeking for something in nature to
which her soul might appeal for sympathy in the swell and storm of
feeling that a few simple words had let loose upon her, after a sleep of
many years.

"Does he know what I have felt and how I have suffered, that he stings
me with such words? His father's marriage! And was I not the
spirit--nay, the victim of that marriage? Why should he speak to me
thus? The air was enough--the calm sleep of the winds--the fragrance. I
was a girl again, till his quiet taunt awoke me. Does he think that I
have lost a thought or a feeling because of this dull heavy routine of
cares? Why did he speak to me in that cold tone? I have not deserved it.
Heaven knows I have not deserved it from him, or from any of them!"

Mabel uttered these words aloud, as she approached the banks of the
river, and her voice clear and rich with feeling, was swept out upon the
wind which bore it away, mingled with fragrance from the dying leaves.

"Does he think with common men, that the impulses of youth die out and
are gone? As if the passions of youth did not become the power of
maturity, and mellow at last into the calm grandeur of old age. If love