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you've been, and that you've got me far, far away from the subject. One all these, and the rushes.'
only thought was with her; it was “I will ask her, my little Mary; à troubled stream, and yet it had you had better not trouble her with much of loveliness; fair and enchantsuch things; when you are with her, ing were its scenes and prospects you should be doing all she tells you, in some of the windings that it took and not thinking too much of all the endearing spots of peacefulness pretty things you see in the room. and joy would the sunshine of her But here we are near 'the Wishing- heart sometimes shew her, as she Gate, Mary. Do you ever wish traced that deep-flowing current ; there? and have you nothing to wish and then again all would be overto-day? I think you must. I am going clouded, and she felt the rain-drops on to Sir Herbert's, but suppose you of those clouds of her bosom's happistop and make a wish-and let it be a ness come dropping on her hands as good wish,-one that you can think she sat working, mechanically, for of after you have said your prayers she knew not what she did. She was at night, and feel the happier for; aroused by this gentle shower of mind that, Mary,-And now good feeling—she felt it was wrong to conbye; I will not go away again without tinue such an indulgence-she had bidding good bye to you and your duties to attend to, and, Desdegrandfather."
mona like, she must draw herself Mary was left alone; she stood off from the story that was calling still before the Gate-(I wish I could forth her sighs, and all her dearest draw her); she looked at it; she sympathies, and attend to the comlooked at her bunch of grass and forts of others. She did arouse herflowers;
she saw one little bird hop- self, and bestir herself, and then she ping near her: “I wished for the went to her own little sitting-room, Lady to give me some chickens, but I which young Mary had lauded só don't think that's a good wish. I wish highly, and there she felt that her old Martha was always dear old Mar- best occupation would be drawing; tha, and never spoke angry to me; she arranged it all, and then she but that's not quite the goodest wish. looked out at the window at the silOh, I know what must be a good wish! ver bell, almost hidden by the jessaI wish I may always be a good child, mine that twined itself around and and do all grandfather and Lady tell within the little casement,-she saw me, and never make him look sad at little Mary close the gate, and she
This shall be my wish, and I called her to come up to her. “Why, won't mind the chickens ; and I'll be Mary, what a pretty basket! Oh, and kind to old Martha when she does what beautiful grasses and corn popspeak sharp, for I know she loves me pies! But how did you get the rushes, and grandfather. I'll kiss the Gate! Mary? I hope you did not get them and leave the prettiest pop-py, and yourself ?”. the pret-ti-est blue flower (thus she “No, indeed, lady; the gentleman sung it out as she selected them), got them for me, and he did not go and some of the grass ; I'll tie them in the water for them; and will you to the bar in a nosegay, and tell the please to have the basket and flowers, Gate, for that and the kiss it must let sady ?” my wish come true.” And this she « That I will, Mary, and thank you did, after a pretty fashion, and I took too, my dear child. I like them very care those flowers should not wither much; but what gentleman was it for that day; she then hastened to who reached the rushes for you ?” the cottage in the lane, and opened “ Oh! you know him, lady; 'twas the gate where old Michael had en the gentleman what is so like that tered so many hours before.
man that grandfather's leaning on in Medora had passed two hours of the picture !”. musing-melancholy musing, we fear Indeed, Mary! It was very kind -since we left her with her father, of him ;” and Medora blushed deepwho soon left her for his own study, ly, as the little girl pointed to the where he passed most of his morn- picture. “And where did you find ings. She could not read as usual these corn flowers ?” she found her thoughts wandering * Oh, they were growing so beauti
ful on that high bank, lady, very “Why, I think it is little Samuel; near the Wishing-Gate;. I could is it not, lady ?” never have reached them !”
“ It certainly is, Mary; but how “ Then how did you get them, my came you to think so ?” dear?"
“Because it looks just like what “ He was there, too, when I got I used to see inside my head, or them, and saw me longing for them, somewhere, where no one else could and then he scrambled, and took his see it, when grandfather first used to hat off,—and then I knew he was like tell me the story when I was a VERY the picture !"
little girl; and I never hear of him “ And then what did you do ? but I think of him as I saw him then make the basket ?”
—and that's quite like.” “Oh no, that I'd made, lady, when “ It is meant for Samuel, Mary; I was with father up in the hill-fields; and now, my love, work steadily and then I went to the Gate, 'cause the finish this, as there are many dead gentleman told me to go and wish. roses that want cutting off.” I think he'd been wishing, for he The work was soon done, and then looked very solemn, and something they went into the garden, and Mary sad, when I first saw it was him; and was set to cut the roses. Medora he told me to make a good wish, that passed in to her father's study, but I should not be sorry for at prayer he was not there; so she went again time; so I tried, but grandfather says to her own room, and then went on we ought not to tell those wishes, with little Samuel, till Mary came up only to the Gate.”
and shewed how many beautiful “No, don't tell me, Mary; I hope roses had lived and had died. When it was a good wish, and if you thought this was done, Mary was allowed to go first of what your friend said to you, and feed the chickens; her kind Lady I daresay it was a good wish, so I came to her, to enjoy her little ecwill wish it may come to pass. And stasies with her feathered favourites. now, Mary, as 'tis very late, you “Now, Mary, you've been a good must sit down at once to your work, child for many weeks, and as I hope and see if you cannot finish making you will do your best always, I will your grandfather's stockings, and give you three chickens, and your hemming Martha's handkerchiefs, be- grandfather will tell you how to macause I wish you to give them to them
nage them.” this evening when you go home.” « Three chickens, lady!” and
Mary soon established herself on poor Mary seemed almost dumbher little stool by the window. Her foundered with delight. “Oh how dear lady did not talk to her so much very kind of you-how can I be ever as she often did, or ask her questions good enough at my lessons and work! on what she had learnt, for she was —and that was one of the things that busy with many thinkings. “How I wanted to wish for, but did not dare. strange that three so dear to me Oh you dear little creatures! how should have been to the Gate already I shall love you !" this morning! Methinks I would • “ Yes; but, Mary, you must take like to read their wishes,” said she care and not kill them with kindinwardly. “Now, Mary, dear, let me look how you get on with the R. Why, that could not be, lady, There's a wrong stitch here. Mary, could it? I should not have been Mary, why don't you look at it ?” alive now, should I, if people were
“Oh, he is so very pretty, I must killed so ?". look at him! Please, lady, do let me. Mary was torn from the chickens, And I think I know who it is—I and sent to do more work in the garthink ?”
den; and we must now just see what The ecstasy into which the little Medora's father was about. cottager was thrown, was by having
“ Ah! thus it ever is with me,” turned her eye to the drawing her said Colonel Blessington, as he saun, kind mistress had nearly finished. tered forth ; "thus it ever was, and Medora looked pleased at the child's thus it ever will be; those that my raptures. “And who do you think heart leans to, those in whom I take it is, Mary ?”
delight, are soon separated from me
for ever; this young man, whom I so them. A little while thou didst wait for trusted might be settled near to us. my acknowledging them, yea, more become to me even more than a friend than a little while; but then thou, in -but why is not my heart hardened thy mercy, no doubt, withdrew them, to meet my destiny? Why, even as that then I might humble myself beage draws on, am I still to feel these fore thee, One blessing remains to things, even as in youth I felt them?
Grant that from this hour I -But not for myself, my loved Me- may indeed be grateful for it; and dora! surely that brow, which is may I become a blessing unto my truth and openness, and all sincerity, angel child, even as thou wouldst was shaded by sorrow this morning! have me to be. Grant, too, that she and yet those words she spoke to may not need all the consolation a me! The consolation she drew from father's love can yield to a bereaved
he must-I would her and forsaken heart. It would seem consolations were mine! and how I, too, had been breathing my wishes deeply she seems to wish it; surely at the gate of mystery and tradition, she is an angel!”
and why should I not ?" He turned By this time he found himself be- from the spot with a more cheerful side my temple—this my “Wishing temper than he had reached it, and Gate.” He thought of the drawing he then went on towards the Priory, that had pleased him so much; he in the hope of finding his young went and rested his arms on the gate; friend, and hearing the result of his he looked, and smiled at the pretty interview with Sir Herbert. We will nosegay tied to the bar; he was lost leave him; the solitary walk in the in a deep and painful memory of beautiful woods that led to that fine days gone by, that never could be old residence will cherish and nurrecalled; he looked through the pos ture all those high and holy aspirings, tern of time long elapsed, with a me all those humble feelings and pious lancholy not unmingled with remorse hopes, that have been with him at and sincere penitence. He thought,
our Gate. “What might not I have been, if Fre Come, Mary,” said Medora, “ it deric de Lacey had been my equal in is four o'clock, and I am quite ready; age and my companion in India; and we shall but just be in time for old what might I not now be, might I, Martha before she makes her tea, by God's blessing, in some sort re and I wish her to have a nice cup of deem the time that I have lost; oh, tea this afternoon, so I've got a little inore than losi; were I to be led by cannister here, and some sugar, and one like unto him? Oh, could I part this nice little milk-loaf; so come, with all that pride, that keeps me put them in your basket and let us from being taught in these high things go.”. by those who are not among the most “ But the chickens, lady ?” gifted in intellect, or my own equals “ Oh, I will send them by Nanny in other things! but could I have a this evening, and you must be very pastor here whom I loved, this heart patient, as you will not see them till which has ever ruled me, would turn you get up to-morrow, I dare say." unto him and ask his aid to lead me “ That I will, lady; for how many to those waters of comfort which I things I've got the handkerchief find, but too late, can alone refresh and the stockings, and the rushes and and soothe us in this life of pain and flowers for Martha's basket-Oh! so sorrow; and then do I not see that many." the daughter of my own loved trea They walked to Violet Hut; and Me sure; my sun of happiness that dora spoke kindly to old Martha, and brightened on me for so short a day; pleased her with the presents; and do I not see that she desires I should then she went to see old sick Donald, tread, as she does, the heavenward and read to him ; and then, after bidpath? Oh! that this might be! ding Mary good bye, and telling her What blessings hast thou given me, when to come the next day, she went great God! But where has been my towards home alone. gratitude ? scarcely on my lips in “ I will go now to the Wishingthanksgiving, and prayer, and never Gate," thought she; "and then, if my shewn forth in my life, and therefore father walks in the evening, I shall last thou only given me to taste of not be vexed, and wishing to go else
where; so she turned that way, and dinner, and met her father with smiles. felt thankful that she was so much He was particularly lively, indeed more cheerful than in the morning. quite gladsome and happy. His Oh! if indeed all the joys of one's daughter asked him how he had spent own heart were lost to us for ever in his morning, as she had missed him this world, yet still what content- from his study since one o'clock. ment, and almost gladness, might “ I have had a chequered day of it, one not derive from doing kindnesses my dear love," said he; “ but the to others !". This she strove to make brightest colours came at last to deherself believe; but it was only a light me, after the sombre hues that striving, for she soon felt the sadness had something shaded the first part coming over all her heart, at the of my morning. I really don't know thought of parting with one in whom, when I have felt so much joyousness thus in life's early morning, (when as I now feel; and you, my beloved the soul requires so much, and pic- Medora, seem all the better for your tures so highly, the one only friend rest after your fatiguing early walk; that it desires to rest on, for time and you must not let that old beau of for eternity,) she had found all yours—that venerable old Michael yes, quite and more than all. “What beguile you into such rambles.” then is thy wish ?" seemed to be said “Oh, you must not blame him, solemnly to her as she came in sight dear father, for he only beguiled me of the Gate. What could it be, but to the bench on the common; but I for the confirmation of her heart's have not been resting, for I went happiness? If she could but know home with Mary, and then I came that she was loved, this would be home by the Wishing-Gate.” consolation ; and yet, surely, she “ What! have you been to speak could not quite mistake a manner with the gentle spirit of the Gate ? that thrilled her with its tenderness Then are thy good looks accounted and kindness. But stop ; she had not for ; she can spread a ray of sweet touched the Gate. Again, a voice serenity over the features as well as from within her, or around her, seem- the hearts of her votaries. It may ed to say—" Medora is not selfish be she has wrought in me the change another desire lies buried in the re I have undergone since the morning cesses of her heart—a wish of ten - it may be I owe to her mysterious thousand prayers—a wish that is with enchantment the peaceful calm I feel her at sunrise and sunset, and parts within me-for I too, dear Medora, not from her through all the day." found myself, some few hours since, “Yes, yes; oh did I for one instant in deep reflection at her shrine; there let another take its place ? Oh! how were lamentations for the past ; there closely twined must he be with my were wishes, yea, even hopes, for the whole being, that I should have let future, all mingling in my busy thinkthe agony of thinking of this parting ings; and I know not but that even put from me the wish that ought to I asked her to shed, upon what of be first—that is first—that ever shall good feeling was aroused at those be first! Could I ever be happy, if moments, a few drops of that dew all my selfishness were listened to from Heaven, so pure and peace. and I became the loved companion giving, that would nurture into good of — ? How could I be happy if I fruit those desires after a better and thought that my dear father was not a holier life.” treading a path that would lead him “My dear, dear father !" said Me. to everlasting blessedness ? Grant, dora; but she could say no more, then, my wish, thou pure spirit of her heart was full, and the thought this place! Grant that he may be led of what her own wish had been, and to cļing to that Cross, and to trust in the prospect of its fulfilment, was too, that Saviour, who alone can save too much for words ; the tears would us !”
fall, and her kind father kept silence, Many tears did she shed ere she and in no way disturbed her. She turned towards home. She noticed soon recovered her composure, and the pretty bunch of flowers, and knew accepted, with the loveliest of smiles it to be the fancy of her dear little through her glistening eyes, the fruit Mary. She then prepared herself for her father offered her, and then she
said, “ Have you not been to the somewhere in my walk; but it canPriory, sir ?-have you seen nothing not be lost.”. of Mr de Lacey?”.
Why, I don't know, my love. I “Yes, my dear, I have; oh, yes! think it's a chance if you find it, and I was some time with Sir Herbert, I own I should be grieved to lose the and after that walked down to the copy Wordsworth himself gave you. vicarage with our young friend, who I never knew you so careless before; wished to call there before he again cannot you remember at all where left us. But talking of the Wishing- you last had it? Do think !” Gate-Medora, who was it adorn There was a strange look-a sly or ed it with that nosegay of wild flow- saucy curl at the corner of his lip, as ers? Was it you, or was it your little with an affected seriousness her faprotegée, Mary, who has more na- ther said this, which puzzled, whilst tive rustic taste than is to be found in it pleased Medora. “ I certainly do many of the pastoral poems that at- remember where I last had it, or tempt to describe it ? Your little knew that I had it," said she; “but jewel of a sketch gives not the adorn- there is my writing in it-my own ment, so how came it to be there ?" name too. Oh, I am sure, no one
“Oh, you are quite right in thinking who found it would keep it,-they it was Mary's
taste-it is just like her; would see whose it was, and bring and though she did not tell me, I feel it." sure no other little lass in the village, “I don't know that,” said her father, or miles round, would have thought with the same expression ;_" your of such a thing. This is a treasure of a writing in it may be the very reason child, so very affectionate, and really for their choosing to keep it. But I so good. I wish, my dear father, you would advise you to go this very evencould have seen her young raptures ing to the spot where you rememwhen I gave her three chickens! ber holding it, and perhaps the Kelpie I must, some day, take her with us of the Lake may tell you if she has to Rydal. I am quite sure our friend taken it, and placed it in her library would make a volume of poetry out of liquid poetry; or, perhaps, she may of her; for she has none of that shy- tell you, if you dropped it on the land, ness that would make her silent and whether it was caught up by an adodull among strangers. She is at that ring swain who chanced to be passhappy age, that with such an ardent ing at the time.” mind as hers thinks not of restrain Medora was quite at a loss to uning her delighted feelings, or curbing derstand her father, and yet she felt her restless curiosity. Don't you a consciousness that made her cheeks think he would like her ?”
tingle, and she knew she must be lookAssuredly he would, my dear; ing very confused. the very sight of the child would call ~ I will go at once, my dear father, forth a sonnet at least, for no sun- and retrace my steps of the morning, beam on the lake ever looked more and I doubt not, in a short time, I the picture of bright happiness than shall return with the volume undoes little Mary Glenthorn, as she pass- touched and uninjured; and it will es over on the hill side, with her looks be all the dearer to us from our haof love, and her laughing gladsome ving feared losing it; and besides, ness. I often think, when looking at perhaps it will have gained a few her, that instead of saying to her, more pages of poetry from having • Who made you?' as the catechists passed this lovely day among the do, one should speak poetry, and say, mountain daisies, or near the grate'Who filled thy countenance with rosy ful broad leaves of the water-lily, that light? You shall take her, my dear- teaches us all, as Coleridge tells us, est, and that before many days are how to delight and rejoice in Heagone by; but where is the volume in ven's gifts the more and the more, which you wrote out. The Wishing- as the more abundantly they are Gate? I was looking for it this showered upon us.” morning, and could not find it on the “ Yes, that is a pretty idea, though Wordsworth shelf.”
you have mored it, my dear. You “ I'm sorry to say, my dear father," speak not with your usual corsaid Medora, blushing deeply,“ that rectness and elegance—But you are I was careless enough to leave it vexed about the volume, so go, and