Adela Cathcart, Volume 2

"'Child, there's a valley over there,
Pretty and woody and shy;
And a little brook that says—'take care,
Or I'll drown you by and by.'

"'And what comes next?' 'A little town;
And a towering hill again;
More hills and valleys, up and down,
And a river now and then.'

"'And what comes next?' 'A lonely moor,
Without a beaten way;
And grey clouds sailing slow, before
A wind that will not stay.'

"'And then?' 'Dark rocks and yellow sand,
And a moaning sea beside.'
'And then?' 'More sea, more sea more land,
And rivers deep and wide.'

"'And then?' 'Oh! rock and mountain and vale,
Rivers and fields and men;
Over and over—a weary tale—
And round to your home again.'

"'Is that the end? It is weary at best.'
'No, child; it is not the end.
On summer eves, away in the west,
You will see a stair ascend;

"'Built of all colours of lovely stones—
A stair up into the sky;
Where no one is weary, and no one moans,
Or wants to be laid by.'

"'I will go.' 'But the steps are very steep:
If you would climb up there,
You must lie at its foot, as still as sleep,
And be a step of the stair,

"'For others to put their feet on you,
To reach the stones high-piled;
Till Jesus comes and takes you too,
And leads you up, my child!'"

"That is one of your parables, I am sure, Ralph," said the doctor, who was sitting, quite at his ease, on a footstool, with his back against the wall, by the side of the fire opposite to Adela, casting every now and then a glance across the fiery gulf, just as he had done in church when I first saw him. And Percy was there to watch them, though, from some high words I overheard, I had judged that it was with difficulty his mother had prevailed on him to come. I could not help thinking myself, that two pairs of eyes met and parted rather oftener than any other two pairs in the room; but I could find nothing to object.

"Now, Miss Cathcart, it is your turn to sing."

"Would you mind singing another of Heine's songs?" said the doctor, as he offered his hand to lead her to the piano.

"No," she answered. "I will not sing one of that sort. It was not liked last time. Perhaps what I do sing won't be much better though.

"The waters are rising and flowing
Over the weedy stone—
Over and over it going:
It is never gone.

"So joy on joy may go sweeping
Over the head of pain—
Over and over it leaping:
It will rise again."

"Very lovely, but not much better than what I asked for. In revenge, I will give you one of Heine's that my brother translated. It always reminds me, with a great difference, of one in In Memoriam, beginning: Dark house."

So spake Harry, and sang:

"The shapes of the days forgotten
Out of their graves arise,
And show me what once my life was,
In the presence of thine eyes.

"All day through the streets I wandered,
As in dreams men go and come;
The people in wonder looked at me,
I was so mournful dumb.

"It was better though, at night-fall,
When, through the empty town,
I and my shadow together
Went silent up and down.

"With echoing, echoing footstep,
Over the bridge I walk;
The moon breaks out of the waters,
And looks as if she would talk.

"I stood still before thy dwelling,
Like a tree that prays for rain;
I stood gazing up at thy window—
My heart was in such pain.

"And thou lookedst through thy curtains—
I saw thy shining hand;
And thou sawest me, in the moonlight,
Still as a statue stand."

"Excuse me," said Mrs. Cathcart, with a smile, "but I don't think such sentimental songs good for anybody. They can't be healthy—I believe that is the word they use now-a-days."