![]() ![]() Darrell continued his walk, plunging deep into his maze of beech-woods, followed by the doe. Talk languished-the wintry sun began to slope-the air grew keen-Waife was led in-the Morleys went up into his room to keep him company-Sophy escaped back to her own. Sophy must win her way who can resist her?" I will not go to-morrow, as I had intended. Poor Waife, with nature so different, marked Darrell's movement, and, ever ready to seize on comfort, said inly-"He relents. Guy Darrell might be stern in resolves which afflicted others, as he was stern in afflicting himself but for others he had at least compassion. Involuntarily he moved to her side-involuntarily drew her arm within his own-she thus supporting the one who cherished-supported by the one who disowned her. On the instant he recognized, as by intuitive sympathy, the anguish from which that smile struggled forth-knew that Sophy had now learned that grief which lay deep within himself-that grief which makes a sick-chamber of the whole external world, and which greets no more, in the common boons of Nature, the opening Paradise of recovered Hope! His eyes lingered on her face as its smile waned, and perceived that change which had so startled Waife. Sophy, as if suddenly struck with remorse at the thought that she, and she alone, was marring that opening paradise to the old man in his escape from the sick-room to "the sun, the air, the skies," abruptly raised her looks from the ground, and turned them full upon her guardian's face, with an attempt at gladness in her quivering smile, which, whatever its effect on Waife, went straight to the innermost heart of Guy Darrell. He quotes Gray's well-known verses applicable to that event, and when, in that voice, sweet as the flute itself, he comes to the lines. He advances-joins them-congratulates Waife on his first walk as a convalescent. Guy Darrell sees his guests where they have halted by the stone sun-dial. Hark! from some undiscovered hiding-place near the water-Fairthorn's flute! The music fills the landscape as with a living presence the swans pause upon the still lake-the tame doe steals through yonder leafless trees and now, musing and slow, from the same desolate coverts, comes the doe's master. Twice or thrice, as he leans on Sophy's arm, she draws it still nearer to her, and presses it tenderly. Waife exerts himself to talk-to be gay-to protect Sophy's abstracted silence by his own active, desultory, erratic humor. Drawing his arm fondly into hers, they descend the stairs they are in the garden Mrs. Sophy now started-shook back her fair curls-rose-put on her bonnet, and in less than a minute was by the old man's side. Will you give me your arm? I am still very weak." ![]() "Sophy, I should like to hobble out and breathe the air it will do me good. He paused a moment-then went back to his room-took his hat and his staff-came back. "Yes-presently," answered Sophy, and she did not move. "Sophy, dear, it is time to take your walk go-Mrs. An hour passed away he looked in again there she was still-in the same place, in the same attitude. She did not look round-she did not stir but she answered with readiness-" Yes, presently." Waife did not like to approach her but he said, from his stand at the threshold-" The sun is quite bright now, Sophy go out for a little while, darling." The girl was seated at the foot of the bed, quite still-her eyes fixed on the ground, and her finger to her lip, just as she had placed it there when imploring silence so still, it might be even slumber. At length he softly opened the door, and looked in with caution. He had a fineness of hearing almost equal to his son's but he could not hear a sob-not a breath. He crept softly to her door and listened. But now she had stolen into her own room, which communicated with his sitting-room-a small lobby alone intervening-and there she remained so long that he grew uneasy. Usually, when Sophy left Waife in the morning, she would wander out into the grounds, and he could see her pass before his window or she would look into the library, which was almost exclusively given up to the Morleys, and he could hear her tread on the old creaking stairs. Trees the most lovingly shelter and shade us, when, like the willow, the higher soar their summits, the lowlier droop their boughs. Trees that, like the poplar, lift upward all their boughs, give no shade and no shelter, whatever their height.
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