LITERATURE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 3639, 9 December 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

~ -* • BY A LEAP.

: CriAPTBB I. A' tiny cottage, in a garden, stocked . only with fruit and vegetables, save for the hardy creepers clinging to the porch. But then their Jblossoms gleam as white and pure as any exotics, and tho . dark leaves move softly in the fairy light, as the breeze nestles there after its flight across the heath from that for lineof brilliancy, 1 which, though but a ribbon's width, is the broad sea flashing m tho Bun. A' slight, pale woman, wearing a widow's cap upon her smooth brown hair, but with such a look of love and longing on her face that she too has a beauty which it is good to look upbn.^ Small and isolated as the cottage may. be, it is a home of joy and peace ; and plain and quiet as the country woman looks, she has a wealth of warm affection in her heart, Ab she awaits there alone, Mary Sullivan is dreaming Ihe old dreams which have clv ered her through ten years of widowhood— bright, but never impossible, dreams of the future of her only ton — and she is glancing backward, too, over her own life, wondering a little, juqt a littlr, if many women of her age have eeen no more of the world than she, who has not spent one night of all her life— nor ever wished to do so — beyond this village where her husband had been schoolmaster. Is it to be always so ? A steadfast light comes into her oyts, and her quiet lips into a smile, made beautiful by proud and loving trust— " That shall be left to Davy," she says, uttering softly the one name which now means all the world to her. " His choice will be my choice." From tho porch where Mary sits she can catch a glimpse through the tices of the road along which tho stage coach daily passea. This spot eho is watching . eagerly, and when the four horses come within sight at last, she drops her knitting and rises. Nervously drawing her hand acroea her strained, glad eyes, sho turns aud enters the cottage ; as if ahe dare not wuit those few minutes which will bring the coach in Bight again close to the garden. Tea is laid for two in the pleasant little kitchen, and tho table— though it bears upon its snowy cloth no luxuries beyond homemade cakes and fresh-laid eggs— has quito a festive look. The mother stands and gazes around her with a smile. Is there nothing more she can bring for Davy ? Her hands are clasped together, and her breath is quickening, for she knows any moment her boy may rush in, past that line of sunshine at tho open door. But she does not know how intently she is listening for his footstep upon the gravel, nor how her face brightens when he comes at laßt. "Mother!" "o Davy, Davy!" 3he greeting bursts from tho hearts of both, in the first moment ; then tho boy'e lips are clinging to his mother's, and horarms hold him in that entire love which a widowed mother so often lavishes upon an only son. The moal which she had prepared with loving hands is over, and tho mother and nor boy sit together in thoir favourite corner of the porch, while the sun Bets far across the sea. " Four whole weeks of idleness, and of homo and you, mother," Vayy gays. "It eeoms too good to bo true." "But you like the school, Davy ?" Mrs Sullivan asks, wistfully. "You aro hippy there?" lJ " Happy ? Oh, yes, and getting on capitally. Of course I try to do that, mother, as grandfather urged it so when ho condescended to put me at this school. Perhaps he will help mo a little oven when tho five years are over. I will soon rise if he gives me a start after the promised school term." " And if he docs not, this education is a great help, Davy. You will be soventoen when you leave tho college, and clovor, and able to do anything." "Anything— everything, mother," asserts tho boy, softly drawing her arm about his neck. " I shall be a man, and you shall never want aaything ugain. You shall have a large house and garden, and I shall como home every evening from my oflico, where I shall earn the monoy, you know. I must be Bear London, because men do not got rich except in London, I expect. Shall you like it. molhor?" " You have made up your mind to be rich. Davy?" " Only," tho boy answer*, his oyeB upon his mother's, " only just rich enough to make you jorafortablo and happy, that you may never have to work, as you work now, or dony yourself. You have so little, mother, to mako your life easy and bright." " Little ! " she cried through her happy tears. "Little, when I have you, Davy ! " Wo both havo all wo nood, dear mothor," tho boy says, laying his curly head upon hor shoulder. " I would not change homos with theriche3t boy in all our college, though he would laugh at the notion j but I mean to give you more. lam making the most of my time." "And what do the masters Bay of you, Dary?" ■■ ■ ■■ " That I am the best arithmetioian in tho school," the boy cays, laughing; "and best (for my age) in one or two other things. But, mother, I beat every fellow, older or younger, hollow at gymnastics." " What aro they ? " asks Mary, wondering. But though David explains at length, her idea of tho science is only a little less vague when he finishes titan it had been when he begun. > . " Wo have a splendid gymnasium at school, and you should boo mo. Thoro's not a fellow who can come anywhere near me. . And- 1 have a prize to show you, mothor— not for that," he adds, with a laugh at her surprise, ." but for account?. I won it to pleaeo grandfather, because, after all, ho was very good to put :ne to school, though he will not personally notice either of us. It is almost like giving me a fortune, isn't \i ? and therefore better than if he asked mo to his house, although that would show he hod forgiven my father for— settling hero." " Almost a fortuno — yes," she answers, gravoly stroking hia brown curls. " But try to think lees of- being rich than of being good and (rueheartcdy my own child." " I do, mother," ho says earnestly, " only I talk more of the one; : And when I think things over, mother, I feel quite sure that a man's occupation neod mako no. difference My fathor had nothing harder to battlo with than tho ignorarco of a lot of boys, who, aftor all, loved him, and tried to please him, but I may bo just as good a man battling, with tho world— which Booms so far from us and so unreal to us yet — as ho was in this dear, quiet nook. Don't you feel this, mother?" ■ Yes, she feels it. Small as her knowledge is, sho knows of one who walked unspotted through tho world ; and poor as she may bo, sho is rich in hor trust in Him. The sunset light is dying now, and mother and son sit pitching it, in a silonco which isewectwith \oxe and sympathy— and when those fjur, j)ink clouds fade and vanish from above , the tea, they rise and go into tve r cottage together. •, ! GiurTßß 11, ■ Tbc first vacation of Davifl has passed like a dream to his mother, and now that the last jlay has armed ; she tfftels bb if flinly u week lad sped, though Bho has so regretfully and liungrily counted (each, morning and each night) both the days and nights that have boon spent and thoso that are to como, vi j ■ Another long ab'iMnae .. fpilowßi: another prieht^iqmg-qpming (i n £h 0 frosty Christmas .darkness now), and anothor abienco; nnd so im, until David comes .homo for school for tho ost time of all. Ho meetg f hiB.nioj.h_er just withia thejjorch yhero the flowers bloom that summer as thoy 'havo bloomed through every summer of his life, and ho has no clouds on his face. But -later on lji» jQpqther'jß anxiouß faco is jangwered a htMaisadly. >'■ <, L | " Yes, mother ; I heard from the lawyer (yesterday. 1 OranuTather's will-ddes'iiofc mention oither of us, Ho has given mo all tho Ibelp ho meantTi* gF&. » Well,' he has been jvery good, and, IV ready to wake my

own: start in the world. But I must go a* oncei . One deh'oioqs day with you" be**, th#i; , fcr London! Don't look bo sad, my mother; this shall not bo a long separation, not even bo long as the old school terms, for I will soon como back to fetoh you." So after this one day he goes, laughing over his scanty purse, becaus? his hands a» strong, he says, and hie fortune, hope and , courage But when he looks back, it is only through a mist of tear* that he on ccc the littlo cottage, where he.leaves his mother is lonelinesc . p _After David's departure tlio days pasa for,, Mrs Sullivan jiißt as the old school days have done, except that now she has a daily excitement in her letters. Never can she settle to anything until the postman has come up the garden path and given into her trembling hand tho letter (lull of love, and bravory, and hope) which does his mother's heart aueb. good. At last one letter comes* in whi )h he tel» her he lias fiu ul omploymont in an accountant's office; employment which is very easy to him, and which he likes, though the salary ho is to receivo is much smaller than he anticipated when ho so hopefully began hia search. (To he continued.)