The sudden fire
of transfiguration that had for a moment flamed out of the All, and
straightway withdrawn, would have become a memory only; but none the less
would that enlargement of the child way of seeing things have remained
with me. I do not think that would ever have left me: it is the care of
the prudent wise that bleaches the grass, and is as the fumes of sulphur
to the red rose of life.
Outwearied with inward conflict, I slept a dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER XII.
A LETTER.
A cool soft breeze went through the curtains of my couch, and I awoke.
The blooms of the peasant-briars and the court-roses were waving together
over my head. The sigh of the wind had breathed itself out over the far
heath, and ere it died in my fairy forest of lowly plants and bushes, had
found and fanned the cheeks that lay down hot and athirst for air. It
gave me new life, and I rose refreshed. Something fluttered to the
ground. I thought it was a leaf from a white rose above me, but I looked.
At my feet lay a piece of paper. I took it up. It had been folded very
hastily, and had no address, but who could have a better right to unfold
it than I! It might be nothing; it might be a letter. Should I open it?
Should I not rather seize the opportunity of setting things right between
my heart and my uncle by taking it to him unopened? Only, if it were
indeed--I dared hardly even in thought complete the supposition--might it
not be a wrong to the youth? Might not the paper contain a confidence?
might it not be the messenger of a heart that trusted me before even it
knew my name? Would I inaugurate our acquaintance with an act of
treachery, or at least distrust? Right or wrong, thus my heart reasoned,
and to its reasoning I gave heed.
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