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“You might have made it longer,” murmured Linda,
Who with moist eyes had listened, and to whom
The time had seemed inexplicably brief.
Then with an arm round either parent's neck,
And with a kiss on either parent's cheek,
She said: “My lot is as the good God gave it;
And I'd not have it other than it is.
Could a permit from any human lips
Have made me any more a child of God?
Have made me any more your child, my parents?
Have made me any more my own true self?
Happy, and oh! not diffident to feel
My right to be and breathe the common air?
Could any form of words approving it
Have made us three more intimately near?
Have made us three more exquisitely dear?
Ah! if it could, our love is not the love
I hold it now to be—immortal love!”

With speechless joy and a new pride they gazed
Into her fair and youthful countenance,
Bright with ethereal bloom and tenderness.
Then smoothing back her hair, the father said:
“An anxious thought comes to us now and then,—
Comes like a cloud: the thought that we as yet
Have no provision from our income saved
For Linda. My few little ventures, made
In commerce, in a profitable hope,
So adversely resulted that I saw
My best advance would be in standing still.
As you have heard, all that we now possess
Is in a life-annuity which ends
With two frail lives—your mother's and my own.
So, should death overtake us both at once,—
And this I 've looked on as improbable,—
Our little girl would be left destitute.”

“Not destitute, my father!” Linda cried;
“Far back as thought can go, you taught me this:
To help myself; to seek, in my own mind,
Companionship forever new and glad,
Through studies, meditations, and resources
Which nature, books, and crowded life supply.
And then you urged me to excel in something;
(‘Better do one thing thoroughly,’ you said,
‘Than fifty only tolerably well,’)—
Something from which, with loving diligence,
I might, should life's contingencies require,
Wring a support;—and then, how carefully
You taught me how to deal with slippery men!
Taught me my rights, the laws, the very forms
By which to guard against neglect or fraud
In any business—till I'm half a lawyer.
You taught me, too, how to protect myself,
Should force assail me; how to hold a pistol,
Carry it, fire it—Heaven save me from the need!
And, when I was a very little girl,
You used to take me round to see the houses
As they were built; the clearing of the land;
The digging of the cellar; the foundations;
You told me that the sand to make the mortar
Ought to be fresh, and not the sea-shore sand;
Else would the salt keep up a certain moisture.
And then we 'd watch the framework, and the roofing;
And you 'd explain the office and the name
Of every beam, and make me understand
The qualities of wood, seasoning of timber,
And how the masons, and the carpenters,
The plasterers, the plumbers, and the slaters,
Should do their work; and when they slighted it,
And when the wood-work was too near the flue,
The flue too narrow, or the draught defective:
So that, as you yourself have often said,
I'm better qualified than half the builders
To plan and build a house, and guard myself
From being cheated in the operation.
Fear not for me, my parents; spend your income
Without a thought of saving. And besides,
Had you not trained me aptly as you have,
Am I not better—I—than many sparrows?
There is a heavenly Father over all!”

“Sweet arguer!” said Percival, “may He
And his swift angels love and help our Linda!
Your mother and myself have tried of late
To study how and where we might reduce
Certain expenses that have been,—”
But here
The dinner-bell broke in; and lighter thoughts—
Thoughts that but skim the surface of the mind,
And stir not its profound—were interchanged
As now more timely; for the Percivals
Lacked not good appetites, and every meal
Had its best stimulant in cheerfulness.
“Where shall we go to pass our holidays?”
The mother asked: “August will soon be here.”
“What says our Linda?” answered Percival:
“The seaside or the mountains shall it be?”
“Linda will go with the majority!
You 've spilt the salt, papa; please throw a little
Over your shoulder; there! that saves a quarrel.
To me you leave it, do you? to decide
Where we shall go? Then hear the voice of wisdom:
The mountain air is good, I love the mountains;
And the sea air is good, I love the sea;
But if you two prefer the mountain air,—
Go to the mountains. On the contrary,—”
“She 's neutral!” cried the father; “what a dodger
This little girl has grown! Come, now, I'll cast
Into the scale my sword, and say we'll go
To old Cape Ann. Does any slave object?
None. 'T is a special edict. Pass the peas.
Our rendezvous shall be off Eastern Point.
There shall our Linda try the oar again.”

Dinner was ended, and the gas was lit,
And The Day's last edition had been put
Into his hand to read, when suddenly
Turning to Mary, with a sigh he said:
“Kenrick, I see, is dead—Kenrick, our friend.
‘Died in Chicago on the seventh instant,—
Leaves an estate valued at seven millions.’”
“Indeed! our faithful Kenrick—is he dead?
Leaves he a wife?”—“Probably not, my dear;
Three months ago he was a single man;
I had a letter from him, begging me,
If I lacked funds at any time to draw
On him, and not be modest in my draft.”
“But that was generous; what did you reply?”
“I thanked him for his love, and promised him
He should be first to hear of wants of mine.
Now let us to the music-room adjourn,
And hear what will not jar with our regrets.”
They went; and Mary mother played and sang;
Played the ‘Dead March in Saul’ and sang ‘Old Hundred,’
‘Come, ye Disconsolate,’ ‘When thee I seek’—
And finally these unfamiliar words:—

A day's excursion to a favorite spot—
Choice nook among the choicest of Long Island,
(Paradise Found, he called it playfully)—
Had oft been planned; and one day Percival
Said: “Let us go to day!”—“No, not to-day!”
Cried Linda, with a shudder.—“And why not?
It is the very day of all the year!
There 's an elastic coolness in the air,
Thanks to the thunder-shower we had last night:
A day for out-of-doors! Your reasons, Linda?
Tears in your eyes! Nay, I'll not ask for reasons.
We will not go.”—“Yes, father, let us go.
Whence came my No abrupt, I could not say;
It was a sudden freak, and what it meant
You know as well as I. Shall we get ready?”
“Ay, such a perfect day is rare; it seems
To bring heaven nearer to my understanding;
Life, life itself is joy enough! to be,—
To breathe this ether, see that arch of blue,
Is happiness.”—“But 't is the soul that makes it;
What would it be, my father, without love?”
“Ay, without love, love human and divine,
No atmosphere of real joy can be.”

Not long the time mother and daughter needed
To don their simple, neat habiliments.
A postman handed Percival a letter
As they descended from the door to take
The carriage that would bear them to the station;
For they must go by rail some twenty miles
To reach this paradise of Percival's.

When they were in the cars, and these in motion,
Percival drew the letter from his pocket,
And, while he read, a strange expression stole
Over his features. “Now what is it, father?”
Then with a sigh which her quick ear detected
As one that masked a pleasurable thought,
He said: “Poor little Linda!”—“And why poor?”
“Because she will not be so rich again
In wishes unfulfilled. That grand piano
You saw at Chickering's—what was the price?”
“Twelve hundred dollars only.”—“It is yours!
That painting you admired so—that by Church—
What did they ask for it?”—“Two thousand dollars.”
“'T is cheap at that. We'll take it. Whose turnout
Was it that struck your fancy?”—“Miss Van Hagen's!”
“Well, you shall have one like it, only better.
Look! What a charming cottage! How it stands,
Fronting the water, flanked by woods and gardens!
For sale, I see. We'll buy it. No, that house
Yonder upon the hill would suit us better;
Our coachman's family shall have the cottage.”

“What is it all, my father? You perplex me,”
Said Linda, with a smile of anxious wonder.
“In brief, my little girl,” said Percival,
“You 're grown to be an heiress. Let your mother
Take in that letter. Read it to her, Linda.”
It was a letter from executors
Of the late Arthur Kenrick, making known
That in his several large bequests was one
Of a full million, all to Percival.
The mother's heart flew to the loved ones gone;
She sighed, but not to have them back again;
That were a wish too selfish and profane.
And then, the first surprise at length allayed,
Calmly, but not without a natural joy
At being thus lifted to an affluent lot,
The three discussed their future. Should they travel?
Or should they choose some rural site, and build?
Paradise Found would furnish a good site!
Now they could help how many! Not aloof
From scenes of destitution had they kept:
What joy to aid the worthy poor! To save
This one from beggary! To give the means
To that forsaken widow, overworked,
With her persistent cough, to make a trip,
She and her children, city-pinched and pale,
To some good inland farm, and there recruit!
Many the plans for others they conceived!
Many the joyful—
Ah! a shivering crash!
A whirl of splintered wood and loosened iron!
Then shrieks and groans of pain. ...
A broken rail
Had done it all. Now for the killed and wounded!
Ghastly the spectacle! And happy those
Whom Death had taken swiftly! Linda's mother
Was one of these—a smile upon her lips,
But her breast marred—peacefully she had passed.
Percival's wound was mortal, but he strove,
Amid the jar of sense, to fix his mind
On one absorbing thought—a thought for Linda:
For she, though stunned, they told him, would survive,
Motherless, though—soon to be fatherless!
And something—ah! what was it?—must be done,
Done, too, at once. “O gentlemen, come here!
Paper and pen and ink! Quick, quick, I pray you!
No matter! Come! A pencil—that will do.
Help me to make a will—I do bequeathe—
Where am I? What has happened? God be with me!
Yes, I remember now—the will! the will!
No matter for the writing! Witness ye
That I bequeathe, convey, and hereby give
To this my only child, named Linda—Linda—
God! What 's my name? Where was I? Percival
To Linda Percival—Is this a dream?
What would I do? My heart is drowned in blood.
God help me. Linda—Linda!”
Then he died;
And, chasing from his face that glare of anguish,
Came a smile beatific as if angels
Had soothed his fears and hushed him into calm.

Her father's cry was all unheard by Linda,
Or by her mortal senses all unheard.
Perhaps a finer faculty, removed
From the external consciousness afar,
Took it all in; for when she woke at last
To outward life, and looking round beheld
No sign of either parent, she sank back
Into a trance, and lay insensible
For many hours. Then rallying she once more
Seemed conscious; and observing the kind looks
Of an old woman and a man whose brow
Of thought contrasted with his face of youth,
She calmly said: “Don't fear to tell me all;
I think I know it all; an accident
With loss of life; my father and my mother
Among—among the killed. Enough! Your silence
Explains it now. So leave me for a while.
Should I need help, I'll call. You 're very good.”

When they returned, Linda was sitting up
Against the pillow of the bed; her hands
Folded upon her breast; her open eyes
Tearless and glazed, as if celestial scenes,
Clear to the inner, nulled the outer vision.
The man drew near, touched her upon the brow,
And said, “My name is Henry Meredith.”
She started, and, as on an April sky
A cloud is riven, and through the sudden cleft
The sunshine darts, even so were Linda's eyes
Flooded with conscious lustre, and she woke.

It was a neatly furnished cottage room
In which she lay, and nodding eglantine,
With its sweet-scented foliage and rath roses,
Rustled and shimmered at the open window.
“How long have I been lying here?” asked Linda.
“Almost two days,” said Meredith.—“Indeed!
I read, sir, what you 'd ask me, in your looks;
And to the question on your mind I answer,
If all is ready, let the funeral be
This afternoon. Ay, in the village ground
Let their remains be laid. The services
May be as is convenient.” “Of what faith
Were they?”—“The faith of Christ.”—“But that is vague.
The faith of Christ? Mean you the faith in Christ?
Faith in the power and need of his atonement?”

“All that I mean is, that they held the faith
Which was the faith of Christ, as manifest
In his own words, unwrenched by others' words.
So to no sect did they attach themselves;
But from all sects drew all the truth they could
In charity; believing that when Christ
Said of the pure in heart, ‘They shall see God,’
He meant it; spoke no fragment of a truth;
Deferred no saying, qualifying that;
Set no word-trap for unsuspecting souls;
Spoke no oracular, ambiguous phrase,
Intending merely the vicarious pure;
Reserved no strange or mystical condition
To breed fine points of doctrine, or confound
The simple-minded and the slow of faith.
Heart-purity and singleness and love,
Fertile in loving acts, sole proof of these,
Summed up for them, my father and my mother,
All nobleness, all duty, all salvation,
And all religion.”
With a heavy sigh
Meredith turned away. “I'll not discuss
Things of such moment now,” said he. “One rock,
One only rock, amid the clashing waves
Of human error, have I found,—the rock
On which Christ built his Church. Heaven show you it!”
“Heaven show me truth! let it be on the rock,
Or in the sand. You'll say Amen to that?”
“I say Amen to what the Church approves,
For I myself am weak and fallible,
Depraved by nature, reprobate and doomed,
And ransomed only by the atoning blood
Of a Redeemer more divine than human.
But controversy is not timely now:
The papers, jewels, money, and what clothes
Could properly be taken, you will find
In a small trunk of which this is the key.
At three o'clock the carriage will be ready.”

Linda put forth her hand; he gravely took it,
And holding it in both of his the while,
Said: “Should you lack a friend, remember me.
I was a witness to your father's death.
Your mother must have died without a pang.
He, by a strenuous will, kept death at bay
A minute, and his dying cry was Linda!
Hardly can he have felt his sufferings,
Such the intentness of his thought for you!”
The fount of tears was happily struck at last,
And Linda wept profusely. Meredith
Quitted the room; but the old woman sat
Beside the bed, her thin and shrunken fingers
Hiding themselves in Linda's locks of gold,
Or with a soothing motion parting them
From a brow fine and white as alabaster.
At length, like a retreating thunder-storm,
The sobs grew faint and fainter, and then ceased.

After a pause, said Linda to the lady,
“Is he your grandson?”—“Ay, my only one;
A noble youth, heir to a splendid fortune;
A scholar, too, and such a gentleman!
Young; ay, not twenty-four! What a career,
Would he but choose! Society is his,
To cull from as he would. He throws by all,
To be a poor tame priest, and take confessions
Of petty scandals and delinquencies
From a few Irish hussies and old women!”
“We all,” said Linda, “hear the voice of duty
In different ways, and many not at all.
Honor to him who heeds the sacred claim
At any cost of life's amenities
And tenderest ties! We see the sacrifice;—
We cannot reckon up the nobleness
It called for, and must call for to the end.”