en dull, or sad, or lonely. How
could I be? Dull, with two dear, bright, sunny letters every week,
letters throbbing with manly tenderness, letters breathing the sure,
steadfast, protecting care that a strong man gives to the woman he has
chosen. Sad, with my heart brimming over with sweet memories and
sweeter prophecies, and all its tiny crevices so filled with love that
discontent can find no entrance there! Lonely, when the vision of the
beloved is so poignantly real in absence that his bodily presence adds
only a final touch to joy! Dull, or sad, when in these soft days of
spring and early summer I have harboured a new feeling of companionship
and oneness with Nature, a fresh joy in all her bounteous resource
and plenitude of life, a renewed sense of kinship with her mysterious
awakenings! The heavenly greenness and promise of the outer world seem
but a reflection of the hopes and dreams that irradiate my own inner
consciousness.

My art, dearly as I loved it, dearly as I love it still, never gave
me these strange, unspeakable joys with their delicate margin of pain.
Where are my ambitions, my visions of lonely triumphs, my imperative
need of self-expression, my ennobling glimpses of the unattainable, my
companionship with the shadows in which an artist's life is so rich? Are
they vanished altogether? I think not; only changed in the twinkling
of an eye, merged in something higher still, carried over, linked on,
transformed, transmuted, by Love the alchemist, who, not content with
joys already bestowed, whispers secret promises of raptures yet to come.

The green isle looked its fairest for our wanderers. Just as a woman
adorns herself with all her jewels when she wishes to startle or
enthrall, wishes to make a lover of a friend, so Devorgilla arrayed
herself to conquer these two pairs of fresh eyes, and command their
instant allegiance.

It was a tender, silvery day, fair, mild, pensive, with light shadows
and a capricious sun. There had been a storm of rain the night before,
and it was as if Nature had repented of her wildness, and sought
forgiveness by all sorts of winsome arts, insinuating invitations, soft
caresses, and melting coquetries of demeanour.

Broona and Jackeen had lunched with us at the Old Hall, and, inebriated
by broiled chicken, green peas, and a half holiday, flitted like
fireflies through Aunt David's garden, showing all its treasures to the
two new friends, already in high favour.

Benel