earth, except the very nearest and dearest; and even that case is no exception, when there is the faith of meeting again, which almost every mourner has, so natural and welcome as it is.”
“Do you tell your infirm friends the high opinion you have of their sufferings?” asked Margaret.
“Why, not exactly; that would not be the kindest thing to do, would it? What they want is, to have their trouble lightened to them, not made the worst of;—lightened, not by using any deceit, of course, but by simply treating their case as a matter of fact.”
“Then surely you should make light of the case of the dying too: make light of it even to the survivors. Do you do this?”
“In one sense I do; in another sense no one can do it. Not regarding death as a misfortune, I cannot affect to consider it so. Regarding the change of existence as a very serious one, I cannot, of course, make light of it.”
“That way of looking at it regards only the dying person; you have not said how you speak of it to survivors.”
“As I speak of it to you now, or to myself when I see any one die; with the added consideration of what the survivors are about to lose. That is a large consideration certainly; but should not one give them credit for viewing death as it is, and for being willing to bear their own loss cheerfully, as they would desire to bear any other kind of loss? especially if, as they say, they believe it to be only for a time.”
“This as looking on the bright side,” observed Hester, in a low voice; but she was overheard by Mr. Hope.
“I trust you do not object to the bright side of things,” said he, smiling, “as long as there is so much about us that is really very dark?”
“What can religion be for,” said Margaret, “or reason, or philosophy, whichever name you may call your faith by, but to show us the bright side of everything—of death among the rest? I have often wondered why we seem to try to make the most of that evil (if evil it be), while we think it a duty to make the least of every other. I had some such feeling, I suppose, when I was surprised to hear that you had come hither straight from a deathbed: I do not wonder at all now.”
“Mr. Smithson will not be much missed,” observed Sophia, who felt herself relieved from the solemnity of the occasion by what had passed, and at liberty to speak of him as freely as if he was no nearer death than ever. “He has never been a sociable neighbour. I always thought him an odd old man, from the earliest time I can remember.”
“Some few will miss him,” said Mr. Hope. “He is a simple-hearted, shy man, who never did himself justice, except with two or three who saw most of him. Their affection has been enough for him—enough to make him think now that his life has been a very happy one. There!” cried Hope, as a lark sprang up almost from under the feet of the party—“There is another member of Deerbrook society, ladies, who is anxious to make your acquaintance.” There were two or three larks hovering above the meadow at this moment, and others were soaring further off. The air was full of lark music. The party stood still and listened. Looking up into the sunny sky, they watched one little warbler, wheeling round, falling, rising again, still warbling, till it seemed as if it could never be exhausted. Sophia said it made her head ache to look up so long; and she seemed impatient for the bird to have done. It then struck her that she also might find a nest, like her sisters; and she examined the place whence the lark had sprung. Under a thick tuft of grass, in a little hollow, she found a family of infant larks huddled together, and pointed them out to her cousins.
The children came upon being called. They were damped in spirits. They did not see how they were to find any nests, if the ants’ nest would not do; unless, indeed, Mr. Hope would hold them up into the trees or hedges to look; but they could not climb trees, Mr. Hope knew. They were somewhat further mortified by perceiving that they might have found a nest by examining the ground, if they had happened to think of it. Margaret begged they would not be distressed at not finding nests for her; and Mr. Hope proposed to try his luck, saying, that if he succeeded, every one who wished should have a ride on his horse.
To the surprise of the children, he turned towards the water, and walked along the bank. The brimming river was smooth as glass; and where it stood in among the rushes, and in every tiny inlet, it was as clear as the air, and alive with small fish, which darted at the flies that dimpled the surface. A swan, which had been quietly sailing in the middle of the stream, changed its deportment as the party proceeded along the bank. It ruffled its breast feathers, arched back its neck till the head rested between the erect wings, and drove through the water with a speed which shivered the pictures in it as a sweeping gale would have done.
“What is the matter with the creature?” asked Margaret; “I never saw a swan behave so.”
The children seemed rather afraid that the bird would come on shore and attack them. Mr. Hope took the opportunity of its being at some little distance, to open the rushes, and show where a fine milk-white egg lay in a large round nest.
“Oh, Mr. Hope, you knew!” cried the children, “you knew there was a swan’s nest near.”
“Yes; and did not you, when you saw how the swan behaved? But I was aware of this nest before. Tom Creach has the care of the park swans; he made this nest, and he told me where it was. Let your cousins have a peep; and then we will go, before the poor swan grows too much frightened. And now, who will have a ride on my horse?”
All the children chose to ride; and, while Mr. Hope was coursing with them in turn, round and round the meadow, the young ladies proceeded along the bank. A quarter of a mile further on, they fell in with Sydney Grey and his friend Mr. Philip. They had been successful in their sport. Mr. Enderby had had enough of it, and was stretched on the grass reading, while Sydney stood on the roots of an old oak, casting his line into the pool beneath its shadow.
“So, here you are, quite safe!” said Sophia; “George Rowland might have come after all. Poor boy! I am glad he is not with us, he would be so mortified to see all the fish you have caught without him!”
“How many times have we been in the river, Sydney? Can you remember?” asked Mr. Enderby.
“I have seen no fish big enough to pull us in,” said Sydney; “and I do not know any other way of getting a wetting at this sport. Mrs. Rowland should have seen George and me climbing the old oak at the two-mile turning. I dared George to it, and there he hung over the water, at the end of the branch, riding up and down like a see-saw. She would think nothing of letting him go fishing after that.”
“If the branch had broken,” said Mr. Enderby, “what would you have done then?”
“Oh, it is not often that a branch breaks.”
“Old oaks are apt to break, sooner or later; and, the next time you dare George to see-saw over the river, I would advise you to consider beforehand how you would get him out, in case of his dropping in.”
“Oh, he is not afraid. One day lately, when the water was low, he offered to cross the weir at Dingleford. I did not persuade him to that; but he pulled off his shoes and stockings, and got over and back, safe enough.”
“Indeed! and you tried it too, I suppose?”
“Yes; it would be a shame if I could not do what George can. It was almost as easy as walking along this bank.”
“I shall talk to Master George, however, before he goes to Dingleford again, or he may chance to find it easier some day to miss his footing than to hold it.”
“I
