MAISIE'S STORY,

Otago Witness, Issue 2782, 10 July 1907, Page 87

MAISIE' S STORY,

By Somebodt's Lassie.

It is a beautiful: summer afternoon, and all is fair and lovely without. I can hear the drowsy hum of bees as they flit about from flower to flower; through my open window the sweet fragrance of the hawthorn is wafted in on the gentle breeae, and, oh, what memories it brings back to me! Down in the lane, I know, the hedges will be laden with the sweet may blossgms, both white and red. Oh, if I could but see them once again! But pleasure is denied me, for lam a, helpless invalid. My spine was injured through a fall, and it has deprived me of the use of my limbs. For eight weary years I, Maisie Fielding", have lain on this couch. What a long time it seems! I was only a young girl when that accident nappened, ■with all my bright young life before me. Oh, can I ever forget the agony of that hour when I first learned what was to be my fate? Am invalid for life! Shut out from, the busy world, the birds, the flowers, and sunshine, and all that life held dear -to me. AIJ the world grew suddenly dark, the sunshine faded, and life held no more charms for me. I longed to die. I thought God was cruel and had dealt hardly with me, and my heart was full of bitterness against Him. But -that has -all passed away now. I have learnt many «, lesson in the hard Bchool of pain, and the cross does not seem so heavy now because I can say, "Thy will be done." I often grow weary and am lonely sometimes, but never unhappy. There are many things I can do which help to while away the -time, and every ©axe and comfort which love can devise is lavished upon me. I urn an only child, and no father could be fonder or kinder than mine. Then .there is dear Aunt Mildred, who can never do enough for she. She is father's sister, and the only mother I have ever known, for my own mother died when I was but a babe. Aunt Mildie loves me juat as much as if I were her own child. She took me to her warm loving- heart when I was a motherless babe, and I have never missed «. mother's love. In my girlhood I was gay and light-hearted; life was very sweet to me before' my trial came. When I was but 20 another sweeter joy came into mv life. Frank Martin told me of his love, ft was a summer's evening, and the hawthorns were in bloom. I was sitting on a mossy bank down the lane, ' listening to the birds singing, when he ; found me out and took a seat beside me, j and somehow, before I was aware of it, he had taken my hands and was telling me life's sweetest story. And I—lI — I had not a word to say. I sat with downbent head in shy confusion, until he asked in a pleading tone, "Muisie, dear, have you nothing to | 6ay to me? Have you no answer to give?" ' Then, l raised my eyes and met his glance. [ "I love you," I said softly, then shyly hid my face in my sunbonnet. But it was not j permitted to remain there long; the bonnet i was mysteriously whisked away, and then j what followed I need not say. There was no one to see but the birds that were singing gaily in the hawthorns above us. Oh, we were so happy that night! Love's young dream was very sweet to ua. It was I who ( at last broke the charm by exclaiming, , "Oh, Frank, whatever will father say? We ' are so young; I am only 20." I lifted a troubled face to his. But he only laughed j at me, and repeated, "Only 20! I think you might pass for 30 with that look on your face. But, seriously, Maisie, if we are young -that is in our favour, as there will be a few years of waiting before I can make a home for you. I have only love to offer you just now. I only hope my little girl will not grow weary of waiting." I looked at him and smiled. He was satisfied, and went on : "As to what your father will s«y — well, I have just got to go and ask him. I will see you home to-night and get it over as soon as possible. ' * I was not present at that interview be- | tween father and Frank. I waited, but to , usher Frank into the study, and then I fled and took refuge in auntie's room. It was not long before I had told h«r my delightful secret, as she was my confidante in all things. I finished up by saying, "But, oh, , auntie, you don't know how happy I am; sou can't understand." Sta wailed at me, {

' but there was a sad look in her eyes when i she said, "I suppose you wonder what an old maid, like me knows about love? Ah, dearie. I was once young like you, «nd had . the same fond dreams. I will tell you my bit of romance, but you must not let it sadden you or damp your happiness." L promised, and she began: "I was older than you when, someone came into my life and whispered sweet words of love, to which I lent a willing ear. I was so happy then. I thought he -was all that was good and true and noble; but, alas! he was false and fiof c. It wanted but ! a week to our wedding day when he disappeared. He left a note saying he was tired I of me, and that he had discovered his love i for me was but a passing fancy. We had i ' never been suited to each other, and I was just to forget him: he wou'd neveT trouble me again. Ah. but I could not forget; false though he was I loved him still! I was ill for a long time after that, and even when I got well I had no interest in life. I don't think I could have borne it all had ,' it not been for your mother. Oh, Maisie, you don't know how much 1 loved her! She was my best friend. She spoke to me of One who could bind up my bruised and broken heart, of One whose love would never change. "Don't fret, Mildie,' she would say"; ' God has better things in store for you.' At that time she herself was passing through deep waters. She had been ailing for a long time, and now the truth was apparent. Medical aid was of no avail. She knew her days were numbered. One day as we sat together ehe said to me, Mildred, I am going to ask a great favour of you.' 'What is it, dear?' I asked. Will you promise to be a mother to my darling when I am gone? I could die happy if I knew she was in your care.' 'I was astonished. I knew not what to say. I did not like to refuse what might be a last request, and yet I was so young and so inexperienced to undertake such 'a .charge. I I went over to the oot where you lay sleepi ing. As I bent over you you opened your eyes and smiled, and stretched out two chubby arms to be taken up. I lifted you ud. and those little arms went round my 1 neok. That settled it ; I could not say nay, I and so your mother's heart wag set at rest j about you. Two months later she died, and i you were mme — her last gift 'to me. I had something to live for then and something to love. You filled the empty place in my life, and by-and-bye the old wound ceased to ache. All is forgiven and forgotten now, and, dearie, I have never regretted fulfilling your mother's last request." As she ceased speaking I threw my arms around her neck and kised her, but I could not speak, and, somehow, after that nigh! we always understood each other better. But to come back to my own story: The result of Frank's talk with father was very satisfactory to us both. He was much taken by surprise, hut had no objections to make. I was all he had, he said, but he loved me too much to stand in the way of my happiness. We were too young to marry yet, but in three years' -time, if we were still of the same mind, he would gladly give his consent and lend us a helping hand if need be. Those were happy days that followed that interview, and even when Frank went away to work for me there were always his letters -to look forward to. The time passed quickly, for I had much to do and much to learn. There were plenty of dainty garments to make *nd little things for the home that would be all mine and Frank's. One day, two years after Frank's departure, I was standing on a ladder nailing up stray branches of the rose tree that grew up the side of my father's house. I had just had a letter from Frank, and I was thinking of him and the little home he was preparing for me. "I will take a slip of this rose to plant by our cottage door," I said to myself; "it will remind me of home." Then suddenly — how was it? — I leaned too far, the ladder swayed, and I fell. I was conscious of an agonising pain ia my back; then all was numbness, darkness, and a blank. When I came to myself I was in my own room m bed, and auntie was seated beside me. I remember wondering vaguely how I came to be there, but by-and-bye it all came back to me. Auntie told me that I had injured my spine by my fall, but she did not tell me the bitter truth just then. They kept it from me as long as they could, but at last I had to know, and then no one could comfort me: I would not listen. When I thought of Frank I laughed mirthlessly. We were going to be married: who would marry a helpless log like me? Oh, what would become of us both? What had I done that God should thus afflict me? These and other vain questions chased each other through my fevered 1 brain .until I thought I would lose my reason. But in my darkest hour I seemed to hear a soft voice whisper: "What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter." It comforted me, and I tried to be patient and to believe that it was all for my good. ; I had many a hard battle to fight ere I | learnt to conquer self, end poor auntie had to put up with many cross and fretful words from me, but I was always sorry when_ I had grieved her, and sometimes told her -so. When Frank oame back and called to see me I greeted him with a smile, but at -sight of me -the poor fellow burst out crying like a child: I was so changed. We had a long talk, and by-and-bye I drew off my ring and gave it back to him, and told him I hoped that some day he wou'd find someone else to take my place. But he looked at me so reproachfully and said, "Oh, Maisie, darling, as if I could ever love any- | one but you! If we can be nothing more, let ua be sweethearts always — always, dear." I could not refuse his pleading, and, oh, his , love has been such a comfort all these years! . i He has been so kind, bringing me flowers i ' and books and fruit, and everything his ' I loving heart could think of, to give me ' pleasure. | It has taken me a long time to "write this ; it has been just like keeping a journal, writing a little every day. But now I must lay nay pen aside forever, as I grow weaker every day, and writing wearies me. Eight years is a long time to have lain here, and I must admit I am growing , weary and longing to be free. I wish I had I been more patient all these years, but it is ! too late now. I can only say I «m sorry, , and hope to be forgiven. The day is fading; it is sunset now. Yes, "Sunset and evening star, and one clear call for me; And may there be no moaning of the bar when I put out to sea." Years have passed. There is no frail sufferer on the couch by the window now. The room is empty: the gentle spirit has broken its prison walls and flown away. In the sunny cemetery on the hillside the grass grows green and the daisies bloom on the spot where Maisie sleeps. Sometimes an old roan comes and stands beside that grave, and as his gaze wanders away to the hedges, clad with the sweet may blossoms, his eyes fill with tears. They bring back memories of a girl's shy, sweet face, of brown eyes alight with love's own radiance. They seem to say to him; . 1

_^n_ I "D'ye mind the scent of the hawthorns ftnl the song o' the 'innet gay? x D'ye mind the words ye said to her on ' that! sweet eve o' May?" Yes, he remembers, for his faithful heart is still leal and true to his first and only love. As he stoops - to, pluck a daisy from thai grassy mound, he murmurs: "Some day, somewhere in the Great Beyond, my little love, we shall meet again. '