Minnie was now a schoolmarm—neat and simple, and sweet. Her figure was slender, and her hair a deep gold, parted simply in the centre, brought over the temples in crisp waves, and wound into a single coil behind. Her head was small and gracefully poised; her teeth as white as milk, because they had never experienced the destructive effects of confectionery; her cheeks, two roses in their first fresh bloom, because she had been reared upon simple food; her figure, slight, supple and well proportioned. She was eighteen. Her beautiful brown eyes wore a sweetly serious look. She had thought as a woman. She was pious, but somehow when she wandered through the woods, and noted how the wild flowers smiled upon her, and listened to the birds as they shook their very throats for joy, she could only think of the love, not the anger of God. God was good. His purpose was loving. How warm and beautiful and sweet was the sun! The sky was blue, and was there not away beyond the blue a place where the tears that stained the cheek down here would be all wiped away? Sorrow! Oh, yes, there was sorrow here, and somehow, the dearest things we yearned for were denied us. There were heavy burdens to bear, and life's contrasts were agonizing, and faith staggered a little; but when Minnie went to the woods with these thoughts, and looked into the timid eye of the violet, she said to herself softly, "God is love."
A simple creature, you see, and not at all clever. I doubt if she had ever heard of Herbert Spencer, much less read his works. If you had told that she had been evolved from a jelly-fish, her brown eyes would only have looked at you wonderingly. You would have conveyed nothing to her.
I must tell you that Minnie was romantic. The woods had bred in her the spirit of poetry. She loved during the holidays to go to the woods with a book, and, seating herself at the foot of a tree, give herself up to dreams—of happy, innocent love, and of calm life, without cloud, blessed by the smile of heaven.
Love is a sudden, shy flame. Love is a blush which mounts to the cheek, and then leaves it pale. Love is the trembling pressure of hands which, for a delicious moment, meet by stealth. Love is sometimes the deep drawn sigh, the languor that steeps the senses, the sudden trembling to which no name can be given. Minnie was in love. The hero of her childhood was the hero of her womanhood. She loved Donald modestly but passionately; but she constantly said to herself in terror, "Oh, Minnie, Minnie, you must take care; guard your secret; never betray yourself."
CHAPTER V. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM
"Oh, happy love, where love like this is found! Oh, heart-felt raptures, bliss beyond compare! I've paced this weary mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare, If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."
Donald and Minnie had grown up together. They had shared in the social life of the village. They had been to little parties together. They had gone to the same church, sat in the same pew, sang the psalms from the same book. They had walked out together in the summer evenings, and both had felt the influence of the white moonlight which steeped the trees along the Marsden road. They had, so to say, appropriated each other, and yet there had been no word of love between them. They had spoken freely to each other; their hands had touched, and both had thrilled at the contact, and yet they were only friends! The village had settled it that they were lovers and that they would be married, and felt satisfied with its own decision, because both were popular.
It was a summer afternoon, and they were in the woods together. Minnie had a basket for wild strawberries. None had been gathered. They were seated at the trunk of a tree. Donald had told her that he thought of leaving the country, and she felt stunned. Her heart stopped. She became as pale as death.
"Yes, Minnie," he said, "I am tired of this life. I want away. I want to push my fortune. What is there here for me? What future is there for me? I want to go to the States. I can get along there. This life is too dull and narrow, and all the young fellows have left."
"Perhaps I feel too that it is a little dull, Donald," Minnie said, "but not being a man, I suppose desires like yours would seem improper When you go," and her voice trembled a little, "I will feel the dullness all the more keenly."
"And do you think it will not cost me an effort to sever our friendship?" Donald said with emotion; "we have been playmates in childhood and friends in riper years. I have been so accustomed to you that to leave you will seem like moving into darkness out of sunlight. Minnie," he went on, taking her hand, and speaking with fervor, "can we only be friends? We say that we are friends; but in my heart I have always loved you. When I began to love you I know not. I feel now that I cannot leave without telling you. Yes, Minnie, I love you, and you only; and it was the hope of bettering my prospects only to ask you to share them, that induced me to think of leaving. But I cannot leave without letting you know what I feel. Just be frank with me, and tell me, do you return my love? I cannot see your face. What! tears! Minnie, Minnie, my darling, you do care a little for me!"
She could not look at him, for tears blinded her, but she said, simply, "Oh, Donald, I have loved you since childhood."
"My own dear Minnie!" He caught her to his breast, and kissed her sweet mouth, her cheek, her hands and hair. He took off her summer hat, and smoothed her golden tresses; he pressed his lips to her white forehead, and called her his darling, his sweet Minnie.
Minnie lay in his arms sobbing, and trembling violently. The restraint she had imposed on herself was now broken down, and she gave way to the natural feelings of her heart. She had received the first kisses of love. She was thrilled with delight and vague alarm.
"Don't tremble, darling," he said, after a long silence.
"Oh, Donald, I can't help it. What is this feeling? What does it mean?"
It was unconscious passion!
CHAPTER VI. "SUCH PARTINGS AS CRUSH THE LIFE OUT OF YOUNG HEARTS."
Donald had made up his mind to go West In vain his parents dissuaded him.
Young love is hopeful, and Donald had pictured reunion in such attractive guise, that Minnie was half reconciled to his departure.
But the parting was sad.
Donald had spent the last evening at Minnie's parents.
The clock has no sympathy with lovers. It struck the hours remorselessly. The parting moment had come. Minnie accompanied her lover to the door. He took her in his arms. He kissed her again and again. He said hopeful things, and he kissed away her tears. He stroked her hair, and drew her head upon his breast. They renewed their vows of love.
Minnie said, through her sobs, "God bless you, Donald."
He tore himself away!
CHAPTER VII. "TO THE WEST, TO THE WEST, THE LAND OF THE FREE."
"Thar ain't no flies on him, boys, is thar?"
"Warn't it neat?"
"Knocked him out in one round, too!" The scene was a saloon in Montana. Six men were gathered round a table playing poker. The light was dim, the liquor was villainous, and the air was dense with tobacco smoke. It was a cowboy party, and one of the cowboys was Donald Morrison. He had adopted