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Chapter II.

Will you come to the concert, Nellie? Surely you are not satisfied with this short day's enjoyment. We always wind up with an entertainment in the evening, when we play all sorts of games and have lots of fun. Do come. Besides, it is such a long time since we were together, that now I don't want to separate sooner than we need, for fear of not being able to meet again for some time." The pleading voice was full of earnestness, and it appears that this was not the first time the owner had presented his petition.

"I can't! If you knew how hard it was to persuade mother allow me come to-day, you would understand why I cannot go to-night. It was only because they were all going into the country that mother let me come. You see there is not so much to do when they are away," added Nellie, casting a mischievous glance up into the eager boyish face bent over her. Then more seriously, "Iwand! when you are a man and have a home of your own, don't keep your children always at work; let them go out and enjoy themselves sometimes: but see, we are missed, we must go back or there will be trouble."

Muttering something about "Bother the trouble," the boy followed his companion, who, in her eager haste to remedy a breach of etiquette, had rushed off and joined the rest of the company, leaving him to follow or remain where he was, as he pleased. Strangely enough, he who but a few moments before felt that he could live for hours where he was, now felt he could not stay a minute, so, for-page 13getting his previous inclinations, he hastened to follow his present desire. I wonder if he be the only one who is subject to such changes? Nevertheless, his mind was made up, and he determined to do his best to get Nellie out that evening.

It was a lovely day. The sun shone down upon a group of true colonial picnicers. Their voices rang out clear and free, and the merry strain was an index of their hearts. In the colonies (New Zealand) age has no retarding influence. Time only lessens darkness and increases light. The children, being born in freedom, value it; they scorn the chains that would hamper their free spirits. Shaking off all fetters with a gay, mocking laugh, they step out, loving and preserving their freedom with more zeal than ever. Who could look upon such a holiday scene and not recognize this truth? Would they not feel within themselves a song of praise to God for the liberty He has thought fit to bestow upon these, their children. Then, as they look beyond the earth of the present into the sky of the future, would not their hearts be stirred to ask God that some of this company, at least, might be spared for His service and used for His glory? Hush! They are singing. Come nearer that you might see and hear. An old man stands bareheaded. The children (his flock) are gathered around. The boys' caps are raised in reverence; the girls' heads are bowed; while the air is full and ringing with that glorious doxology, "Praise God from whom all blessings flow." As the song dies away, and the silence of unemployed air floats around, the old minister lifts his hands and blesses the children. There is no need to go to Longfellow for a description of Arcadian innocence and purity. The innocence and happiness of New Zealand picnicers, if not superior to it in purity, is equal; and if the priest were reverenced in Arcadia, those youths and page 14maidens of New Zealand were not behind in respect, for they dearly loved their kind old minister. I see him now as I saw him then; the sun shining on his long grey beard and silvery hair; his poor thin hande uplifted; how often those hands were held out in silent pleading to his people. That quiet form, so soon to be stilled for ever, standing proudly humbly among his people, and before his God, distinctly. A brighter, truer sun, nay the sun of suns, lit up his kindly heart. And that voice—shall I ever forget it?—so deep, so true, so earnest. Ah! childhood may be more susceptible to impressions, but I know I have never, before or since, heard a more genuine hearty voice. In my dreams I hear it continually; in fancy often; and in the bright hereafter I know I shall listen to it for ever. May it be among the friendly ones which come to welcome me at Heaven's gate.

In that crowd one girl never forgot that scene; and when, in after years, childhood's amusements were laid aside; when, with bitter tears, the drawer containing those baby toys was closed and locked, the remembrance of that old man's blessing brought soothing balm.

"So you will not come, Nellie. I am so sorry. I shall not enjoy myself a bit. There, I won't go." This last in a very spiteful tone.

O! Iwand, please don't say that. I shall be so miserable if I thought you stayed away on my account."

"So you should be. What has changed you, Lyly?" The annoyed tone was gone, and with the return of the old pet name came the return of the affectionate schoolmate. "You used never to refuse me anything. Have you forgotten the games, and the lessons, and the fun we used to have together? O, Lyly dear, I am so jolly glad to see you again. I wish we could go back to school."

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Nellie looked up and smiled. There was in the girl's dark eyes the remembrance of happy, careless days. Young as she was, she was beginning to sigh over the past; and lurking among the folds of those brown velvety curtains were shadows of future pain. Perhaps Iwand saw those unwelcome phantoms, for his voice grew tender and grave, and his quiet caress was full of meaning.

"Please me this once, Lyly," continued he, pushing the stray dark locks from the girl's brow that he might look into the truthful eyes. "If your mother and the others are away, who is to know about your coming?"

"I will not come, Iwand," said Nellie, quietly but firmly. "And, dear, we are getting too big for disobedience. Forgive me, but I dare not come."

Then, giving him one of her merry glances, she exclaimed, "Wouldn't I like to run away just as we used to do. How we used to hide in the long grass and pretend we did not hear mother calling. What a pity we can't be children always. Why doesn't God make children stay as children, and grown-up people as grown-up people?"

"But we are not grown-up people, Nellie. What a funny way to talk."

Nellie's eyes grew wistful, and there was a little tearful sob in her throat as she answered,

"We are not grown-up people, I know, Iwand. But sometimes I wonder if grown-up people were ever children. Will I be like other grown-up people, Iwand?" The dark eyes were raised half fearfully to the boy's face.

"Of course you won't," answered Iwand impatiently. "You will be a jolly sight better. You won't eat a fellow's head off if he doesn't happen to do just what you want."

"I know one thing. I won't scold my children for nothing," answered Nellie innocently.

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Iwand burst out laughing.

"Well, Nellie, you are a brick, 'pon my word you are. I say, old girl," added he after a pause, "do you know what I heard Mother Mumps say? That you would be a fine-looking woman by-and-bye. I suppose you won't look at a fellow then."

"What rubbish, Iwand. If I grow into a fine-looking woman, you will grow into a fine-looking man. One can't do anything without the other doing the same, you know."

At that moment several of the company came up, and the chatter became general. But the evening was drawing to a close, and the holiday makers began to pair off in companies of two and two. Nellie stood chatting to one or two of her nearest friends, and waiting for Iwand, who had gone to speak to a companion. She waited, but no Iwand appeared. "If it were not that I promised Iwand I would wait for him, I would go with you," she said to a dark young man who had pressed her repeatedly to accept his escort. And it was well she turned to look for the laggard, or she would have seen an evil gleam in two deep blue eyes.

Presently Iwand came dashing up, and without waiting to give an apology, pulled Nellie's arm through his and marched off.

Nellie chatted on just as girls do chatter, and taking little notice of things around, and less notice of what she said. But at last receiving no answer to one of her questions, she looked up and saw Iwand regarding her very earnestly.

"What is it, Iwand? Why are you looking at me like that?" Her hand slipped down his coat sleeve, and became clasped in the hand that had been her guide and help during her faltering childhood.

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"I was thinking," said he, "how different you are to most girls."

"Different! why; what do you mean? I don't think I am different."

"Oh, yes! you are. I have not heard you say anything unkind about anyone at the picnic to-day, and I am sure you have had good cause"

A faint breath of something like "That Main Girl! Who is she?" came back to her mind; but she was too much a child at heart to understand the pangs and promptings of jealousy, and with her old merry careless laugh she exclaimed,

"Unkind! Why, Iwand, I love everybody; how could I possibly say anything unkind about them; and I am sure everybody loves me, so neither would they say unkind things about me! Love begets love, you know."

They reached Nellie's gate, and Iwand bade her good-night. "You will not come, Nellie?"

"No, Iwand."

He put his arms around her; he parted the stray dark locks from the broad low brow, and he kissed the parted lips.

"Good-night, Lyly! God keep you always as you are now: sweet and innocent, and free from woman's passions."

The strange words sent a thrill through the girl's frame, and Iwand's unusually grave voice rang in her ears like the sound of the evening church bell. Yet that power which is peculiar to purity alone enabled her to respond to Iwand's earnest good-night; and with the lingering pressure of those childish lips upon his own less childish, Iwand turned away. That night the merry party at the hall missed a familiar face; and every evening of that week his place was vacant in the homes of the kind friends page 18who had so thoughtfully arranged entertainments for his enjoyment. The last day of the week arrived and the two friends were together again.

"Nellie," a hand was laid upon the girl's arm, "I am so glad you came out. I was afraid I would have to go without seeing you."

"You go to-morrow?"

"Yes." A pause.

"I hope you will have a very pleasant trip and be successful, Iwand."

"Thanks." Another pause. Nellie wondered at her companion's short answers; but then she was always wondering.

"When do you think you will be back?"

"Not until next year. Perhaps longer. Will you forget me, Nellie?" The boyish face looked troubled.

"O! no," very decidedly.

"Not even if I do not come back for years, say six or seven? You will be a woman then Nellie, and your thoughts will have changed."

"Iwand, I never forget." Iwand had heard that peculiar ring in the voice several times before, and had learnt to understand it.

"Here is something to help you remember." A small parcel was slipped into Nellie's hand.

"It is very good of you, Iwand; you always think of me. But, dear, do you think I need such to keep you in my memory? I shall remember you because I love you."

Were it not for the very simplicity of the words, anyone listening would have thought, by the grave, sad tone, that a much older person spoke.

Yes! Iwand. Nellie's love did not need so base a thing as substance to stimulate it. True love is rooted beyond page 19the surface layer of sight. The power of its endurance lies in its faith. And in the heart of this child-girl, those germs, which for a time had lain dormant, waiting for the joint growth-producing influence of sun and shower, now sprang into life and made the earth quiver and part at the bursting of their testers. Long after he had forgotten, long after the world had forgotten, Nellie will remember, and the memory of that first and only love will keep her chaste. Parents! do not ridicule such sentiment. Do not turn away with the scornful words, "Such children!" or as I have more often heard say, "Such brats! they ought to be ashamed of themselves." Childhood's love is pure and noble. It is founded upon instinct, and is the nearest approach to that love which Christ bears toward His church, His bride.

"Nellie!" A shrill voice was heard calling, and ere she hastened to obey, Iwand drew her very close to him, and kissed her many times, "Good-bye, my Nellie! a long, long good-bye," something in his throat preventing him from saying more.

"Good-bye, dear, dear Iwand." Two loving arms stole round his neck; two soft cheeks were pressed against his; two tender lips returned his passionate kisses. The summoning voice was heard again, and Nellie was gone to answer the call.

Iwand stood for a few minutes where Nellie had left him. A sharp pain, the first he had ever felt, shot through his heart, and that pain being new was none the less severe. The soft cool evening air fanned his heated brow; overhead the stars kept watch and seemed to read his every thought. We do not know for certain, but we would like to believe that his guardian angel stood beside him during those few quiet moments. Did it plead? or did it warn? page 20Whatever the influence, Iwand's steps lost their usual buoyancy as he wended his homeward way; and the refrain of those last sweet words, "Good-bye, dear, dear Iwand," rang in his ears for many days. Even when time had changed them into things of the past, they would start up, at all times, in all places, under every circumstance: start up as if their living spirit mocked the tomb beneath which these changes attempted to bury them.

We will leave Iwand for a time. Leave him as he stands on the wharf saying a few parting words to his companions. Hope and pleasure and success are thrilling in his young heart, and the blue vein across the white temple is swollen at the thought of "What might be"

Is there no one to lay a hand upon his shoulder and murmur "God bless you"? Will no one offer up a prayer that his young life might be kept from the snares that too truly surround it. Alas! there are so many to preach, so few to pray.