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For seats like these beyond the western main,

And shuddering still to face the distant deep,



Returned and wept, and still returned to weep.'

Oliver Goldsmith.



It is almost over, our Irish holiday, so full of delicious, fruitful

experiences; of pleasures we have made and shared, and of other



people's miseries and hardships we could not relieve. Almost over!

Soon we shall be in Dublin, and then on to London to meet



Francesca's father; soon be deciding whether she will be married at

the house of their friend the American ambassador, or in her own



country, where she has really had no home since the death of her

mother.



The ceremony over, Mr. Monroe will start again for Cairo or

Constantinople, Stockholm or St. Petersburg; for he is of late years



a determined wanderer, whose fatherly affection is chiefly shown in

liberal allowances, in pride of his daughter's beauty and many



conquests, in conscientious letter-writing, and in frequent calls

upon her between his long journeys. It is because of these paternal



predilections that we are so glad Francesca's heart has resisted all

the shot and shell directed against it from the batteries of a dozen



gay worldlings and yielded so quietly and so completely to Ronald

Macdonald's loyal and tender affection.



At tea-time day before yesterday, Salemina suggested that Francesca

and I find the heart of Aunt David's labyrinth, the which she had



discovered in a less than ten minutes' search that morning, leaving

her Gaelic primer behind her that we might bring it back as a proof



of our success. You have heard in Pearla's Celtic fairy tale the

outcome of this little expedition, and now know that Ronald



Macdonald and Himself planned the joyful surprise for us, and by

means of Salemina's aid carried it out triumphantly.



Ronald crossing to Ireland from Glasgow, and Himself from Liverpool,

had met in Dublin, and travelled post-haste to the Shamrock Inn in



Devorgilla, where they communicated with Salemina and begged her

assistance in their plot.



I was looking forward to my husband's arrival within a week, but

Ronald had said not a word of his intended visit; so that Salemina



was properlynervous lest some one of us should collapse out of

sheer joy at the unexpected meeting.



I have been both quietly and wildly happy many times in my life, but

I think yesterday was the most perfect day in all my chain of years.



Not that in this long separation I have been dull, or sad, or

lonely. How could I be? Dull, with two dear, bright, sunny letters



every week, letters throbbing with manly tenderness, letters

breathing the sure, steadfast, protecting care that a strong man



gives to the woman he has chosen. Sad, with my heart brimming over

with sweet memories and sweeter prophecies, and all its tiny



crevices so filled with love that discontent can find no entrance

there! Lonely, when the vision of the beloved is so poignantly real



in absence that his bodily presence adds only a final touch to joy!

Dull, or sad, when in these soft days of spring and early summer I



have harboured a new feeling of companionship and oneness with

Nature, a fresh joy in all her bounteousresource and plenitude of



life, a renewed sense of kinship with her mysterious awakenings!

The heavenly greenness and promise of the outer world seem but a



reflection of the hopes and dreams that irradiate my own inner

consciousness.



My art, dearly as I loved it, dearly as I love it still, never gave

me these strange, unspeakable joys with their delicatemargin of



pain. Where are my ambitions, my visions of lonely triumphs, my

imperative need of self-expression, my ennobling glimpses of the



unattainable, my companionship with the shadows in which an artist's

life is so rich? Are they vanished altogether? I think not; only



changed in the twinkling of an eye, merged in something higher

still, carried over, linked on, transformed, transmuted, by Love the



alchemist, who, not content with joys already bestowed, whispers

secret promises of raptures yet to come.



The green isle looked its fairest for our wanderers. Just as a




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