demeanour that is far more convenable in a man of his years and size.
And Paul Vasher comes and goes. Never were two such lucky lovers as we are. Mother is the most absent of duennas, the children the most invisible of pickles (Basan is at school), and we have the garden and school-room to ourselves; and, oh! we are not unthankful for our good luck! Life can give us no fairer, sweeter, days than she gives us now. Are we not more fortunate than our fellows, in that we can gather up so many precious hours, and say, "They were wholly satisfying; there was no speck of alloy mixed with their pure gold?" Perhaps, if we only knew it, this is the one green spot in our lives, to which, in days to come, we shall look back with a keen longing. If only this golden time might remain with us a little! But it may not.
"Move on!" cries the inexorable voice, "move on! Take up your chain or your garland where you laid it down, and go your way life gives no time for dallying or sitting still." It is moving on until we reach the grave; and, oh, spirits! can you tell me this—Is it not moving on after?
The desolate old Persian proverb comes into my mind: "It is better to kneel than to stand, it is better to sit than to kneel, it is better to lie than to sit, and it is better to be dead than lying." I think the man who wrote that must have been a cowardly, half-hearted fellow, who had not enough pluck to take up his burden and bear it. It is an ignoble longing to wish to lay down the weapons of life, and rust away in stirless, helpless sleep.
My thoughts seem to be taking a dismal turn; but I feel dismal. For the first time in my life I am waiting for Paul. He is delayed, I suppose, by some more of those tiresome people who have been flocking to call upon him since his return has been made known. He has seen a few, escaped a great many, but this morning, I Imagine, he has been fairly caught, to his own disgust, no doubt,
