Stories of Many Lands Part 17

She could not utter a word more, but she stretched out her trembling arms, and Mary crept into them and lay on her mother's breast, the long hunger of her heart satisfied at last!

[Ill.u.s.tration: Mary and her mother]

"Yes, dear, this _is_ our lost child, given back to us by a gracious G.o.d," said Mr. Phillips. But there was no need to tell her that; she knew all now. Kissing her darling, patting her head, and murmuring over her sweet pet names, as though Mary were still the baby girl she had lost, she sat for a few bewildered, rapturous moments, then sank back in a swoon. She lay with such a smile on her lips that those about her were little alarmed. She had only fainted under her burden of happiness. She afterwards said that this swoon was like a trance of heavenly joy. She revived with a sigh, thinking it all a dream,--but we know it was n't.

I don't know that I have anything more to tell you, except that Mrs.

Phillips got well very rapidly, and did n't have to go South with the birds that year. Joy and Love are very good physicians, though they practice without a diploma, in defiance of medical professors and all the college of surgeons.

Yes, one other thing. There was a great Christmas gathering at the Phillips mansion that year. The Raeburns and Mortons were there, with a host of Mary's uncles, aunts, and cousins, and actually two pairs of grandparents. Only think how rich she was!

On Christmas-eve there was dancing and charade-acting, there were games and _tableaux_ in the great hall; and last and best of all, there was story-telling around the fragrant wood-fire in the library.

Of all the stories told that night, there was none to compare, everybody said, with the one related by pretty Bessie Raeburn, of a certain Christmas adventure of hers, and of what came of it.

A CHARADE

I love my _first_ on a summer eve, Or a breezy autumn morning; My soul bounds with it, and my heart Laughs out, all trouble scorning.

I love it by the wild sea-beach, When fades the sunset splendor, And the new moon, like a fairy boat, Sails through the sky-deeps tender.

My _second_ brings up visions sad Of life's most fearful duty,-- Of green mounds hiding from our sight Dear forms of youth and beauty.

My _third_, if speaking slowly, clouds The brightest day with sadness; If quickly, thrills the air, and wakes The gloomiest morn to gladness.

It calls, and through the churchyard gate A funeral is creeping; It calls, and down the old church aisle A bridal train is sweeping!

My _whole_ grew in a garden old, Round which my heart still lingers; Its azure petals formed a cup Fit for a fairy's fingers.

_Canterbury-bell_

THE END.