As he passed along by
mead and glade, his wheel sang to him, and he sang to his wheel. It was
a daisied, daisied world.
There were buttercups and violets in it too as he sped along in the
early morning of an unforgotten Easter Sunday, drawn, so he had
shamelessly told his Miller's Daughter, by antiquarian passion to visit
the famous old parish church near which Alice was at school.
Antiquarian passion! Well, certainly it is an antiquarian passion now.
But then--how his heart beat! how his eyes shone as with burning kohl!
That there was anything to be ashamed of in this stolen ride never even
occurred to him. And perhaps there was little wrong in it, after all.
Perhaps, when the secrets of all hearts are revealed, it will come out
that the Miller's Daughter took the opportunity to meet Narcissus'
understudy,--who can tell?
But the wonderful fresh morning-scented air was a delicious fact beyond
dispute. That was sincere. Ah, there used to be real mornings then!--not
merely interrupted nights.
And it was the Easter-morning of romance. There was a sweet passionate
Sabbath-feeling everywhere. Sabbath-bells, and Sabbath-birds, and
Sabbath-flowers. There was even a feeling of restful Sabbath-cheer about
the old inn, where, at last, entering with much awe the village where
Alice nightly slept--clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
--Narcissus provided for the demands of romance by a hearty
country breakfast. A manna of blessing seemed to lie thick upon every
thing.
Pages:
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46