Chapter III

"On sped the seasons, and the forest child
Was rounded to the symmetry of youth;
While o'er her features stole, serenely wild,
The trembling sanctity of woman's truth,
Her modesty and simpleness and grace;
Yet those who deeper scan the human face,
Amid the trial hour of fear or ruth,
Might clearly read upon its Heaven-writ scroll,
That high and firm resolve that nerved the Roman soul."

Through three bright summers had George Wild led Annie Evalyn over the rough forest path to the village school. They were the only children residing in Scraggiewood, and, therefore almost constantly together. How they roamed through the dim old woods in search of moss and wild flowers, and, in the autumn time, to gather the brown nuts of the chestnut and beech trees; how many favorite nooks and dells they had, in which to rest from their ramblings, and talk and tell each other of their thoughts and dreamings of the life to come! But George would often say he could not understand all Annie's wild words; he thought her whimsical and visionary, and it pained him to find her ambitious and aspiring as her years increased; he would fain have her always a child, rapt in the enjoyment of the present hour, content and satisfied with his companionship and aunt Patty's purple berries and oaten cakes, believing the heaven that closed round Scraggiewood bounded the universe; for something whispered to his heart, if she went forth into the wide world, she would not return to him; and he loved her as well as his indolent nature was capable of loving, and indeed would do a great deal for her sake. She possessed more power to rouse him to action than any other person, and she loved him, too, very well,--but very coolly, very calmly, with a love that sought the good of its object at the expense of self entirely, for she could bear to think of parting with him forever, and putting the world's width between them, so he was benefited and his usefulness increased by the proceeding. And he had always been her companion and protector. Next to her aunty she ought to love him; but his mind was not of a cast with hers; he could not appreciate her dreamy thoughts and aspirations. He was content to fold his arms, and be floated through life by the tide of circumstances, the thing he was; but she could not be so; she must trim her sails and stem the current; within her breast was a spirit that would not be lulled to slumber, but impelled her incessantly to action; there was a quenchless thirst for knowledge, unappeased, and it must be slaked.

Mr. Grey, the kind village pastor, who had become deeply interested in his young pupil during her attendance at the village school, offered to take her under his charge, and afford her the privilege of pursuing a course of study with his own daughter, Netta, with whom Annie had formed a close friendship at school. Aunt Patty said she should be lost without her "hinny," and George Wild remonstrated half angrily with her, for going off to leave him alone; but all to no effect--Annie must go.

"But why won't you go with me, George?" she asked, turning her liquid blue eyes upon his sullen face. "Don't you want to gain knowledge, and fame, and honor, in the great world, and perhaps some day behold multitudes bowing in reverence at your feet?"

"No, I want nothing of all this. I've knowledge enough now, and so have you, if you would only think so. And, as for fame and honor, I believe I'm happier without them, for I've often heard it remarked, 'increase of knowledge is increase of misery.'"

"Well, it is not the misery of ignorance," said Annie, proudly. "I am astonished to hear such sentiments from you, George Wild. I had thought you possessed a nobler, braver heart than to sit down here beneath the oaks of Scraggiewood, and waste the best years of your life in sloth and inaction."

"Why, I've not been sitting alone, have I, Annie?" he asked with an insinuating smile.

"But you will sit here alone henceforth, if you choose to continue this indolent life; childhood does not last forever; my child-life is over, and I am going to work now, hard and earnest."

"For what?"

"_For something noble_; to gain some lofty end."

"Well, I hope you'll succeed in your high-wrought schemes; but for my part, I see no use in fretting and toiling through this life, to secure some transitory fame and honor. Better pass its hours away as easily and quietly as we can."

"We should not live shrunk away in ourselves, but strive to do something for the benefit and happiness of our species."

"O, well, Annie! if to render others happy is your wish and aim, you have but to remain here in your humble cottage home, and I'll promise you you'll do that."

"Why, George," said she, noticing his rueful countenance, "what makes you look so woe-begone? As if I were about to fly to the ends of the earth, when I'm only going two little miles to Parson Grey's Rectory, and promise to walk to Scraggiewood every Saturday evening with you."

"But I feel as if I was going to lose you, Annie, for all that; the times that are past will never return."

"No; but there may be brighter ones ahead," she answered, hopefully.

George shook his head. None of her lofty aspirations found response in his bosom; the present moment occupied his thoughts. So the common wants of life were supplied, and he free from pain and anxiety, he was content, nor wished or thought of aught beyond. The great world of the future he never longed to scan, nor penetrate its misty-veiled depths, and leave a name for lofty deeds and noble actions, that should vibrate on the ear of time when he was no more.

And thus drifted asunder on the great ocean of life the barks that had floated on calmly side by side through a few years of quiet pleasure. They might never spread their sails together again; wider and wider would the distance grow between them; higher and higher would swell the waves as they sped on their separate courses; the one light and buoyant with her freight of noble hopes and dauntless steersman at the helm, the other without sail or ballast, drifted about at the mercy of winds and waves.