For a long time she sat in dreary apathy,almost as motionless as the mossy rock beneath her,and was conscious only of her throbbing forehead and aching heart.Gradually,however,nature's vital touch began to revive her.The sunlight warmed and tranquilized the exquisite form that had been entering its shuddering protest against the chill and corruption of the grave.The south wind,laden with fresh woodland odors,fanned her cheeks,and whispered that there were flowers blooming that she could not see,and that the future also might reveal joys now hidden and unknown,if she would only be patient.Every rustling leaf that fluttered in the gale,but did not fall,called to her with its tiny voice:"Cling to your place,as we do,till the frost of age or the blight of disease brings the end in God's own time and way."A partridge with her brood rustled by along the edge of the forest,and the poor girl imagined she saw in the parent bird,as she led forward her plump little bevy,the pride and complacency of a happy motherhood,which now would never be hers;and from the depths of her woman's heart came nature's protest.Then her heavy eyes were attracted by the sport of two gray squirrels that were racing to the top of one tree,scrambling down another,falling and catching again,and tumbling over each other in their mad excitement.She felt that,at her age,their exuberant life and enjoyment should be a type of her own,but their wild,innocent fun,in contrast with her despair,became so unendurable that she sprang up and frightened them away.
But after she was quiet they soon returned,barking vociferously,and sporting with their old abandon.It was not long since they had left the next in the old hemlock tree,and they were still like Ida,before she had learned that there was anything in the world that could harm her.Other wild creatures flew or scampered by,some stopping to look at her with their bright quick eyes,as if wondering why she was so still and sad.the woods seemed full of joyous midsummer life,and Ida sighed:
"Innocent,happy little things;but if they knew what was in my heart,they would be so frightened they could scarcely creep away to hide."Then with a sudden rush of passionate grief,she cried:
"Oh,why cannot I life and be happy,too?"and she sobbed till she lay exhausted on the mossy rock.
Whether she had swooned,or from weakness had become unconscious,she did not know,when,considerably later,she roused herself from what seemed like a heavy and unrefreshing sleep.Her dress was damp with dew,the sun had sunk so low as to fill the forest with a sombre shade;the happy life that had sported around her was hushed and hidden,and the wind now sighed mournfully through the trees.Gloom and darkening shadows had taken the place of the light and joyousness she first had seen.In the face and voices of nature,as in those of earthly friends,the changes are often so great that we are tempted to ask in dismay,are they--can they be the same?
She was stiff and cold as she rose from her rocky couch,but she wearily turned her face towards the hotel,muttering,as she plodded heavily along,"The little people of the woods are happy while they can be,as Iwas,but the sportsman's gun,or the hawk,or winter's cold,will soon bring to them bitter pain,and death.their brief day will soon be over,as mine is.""Ah,the sun is sinking behind that cloud,"she said,in a low tone,as she came out into the open fields."I shall not see it again;it will not be able to warm me to-morrow;"and with a slight gesture of farewell,she continued on her way with bowed head.
