virtue, their belief in
sincerity, their implicit trust in what seems good and fair. All the
pleasures of the world would not be an equivalent for the loss of
these."

"And do you possess all these now?"

"I think I do. I am sure I ought. I have never yet been deceived. I
should doubt that the setting sun would rise again, as soon as the truth
of those who have professed to love me. Your mother, Edith--and"--

"Richard Clyde," he added, with a smile, and that truth-searching glance
which often brought unbidden words to my lips.

"Yes; I have perfect reliance in his friendship."

"And in his love," he added; "why not finish the sentence?"

"Because I have no right to betray his confidence,--even supposing your
assertion to be true. I have spoken of the only feeling, whose existence
I am willing to admit, and even that was drawn from me. What if _I_ turn
inquisitor?" said I, suddenly emboldened to look in his face. "Have
_you_, who have seen so much more of life, experienced the chilling
influences which you deprecate for me?"

"I am naturally suspicious and distrustful," he answered. "Have you
never been told so?"

"If I have, it required your own assertion to make me believe it."

"Do you not see the shadow on my brow? It has been there since my cradle
hours. It was born with me, and is a part of myself,--just as much as
the shadow I cast upon the sunshine. I can no more remove it than I
could the thunder-cloud from Jehovah's arch."

I trembled at the strength of his language, and it seemed as if the
shadow were stealing over my own soul. His employment was prophetic. He
was pulling the rose-leaves from my basket, and scattering them
unconsciously on the floor.

"See what I have done," said he, looking down on the wreck.

"So the roses of confidence are scattered and destroyed by the cruel
hand of mistrust," cried I, stooping to gather the fallen petals.

"Let them be," said he, sadly, "you cannot restore them."

"I know it; but I can remove the ruins."

I was quite distressed at the turn the conversation had taken. I could
not bear to think that one to whom the Creator had been so bountiful of
his gifts, should appreciate so little the blessings given. He, to talk
of shadows, in the blazing noonday of fortune; to pant with thirst, when
wave swelling after wave of pure crystal water wooed with refreshing
coolness his meeting lips.

Oh, starver in the midst of God's plenty! think of the wretched sons