CHAPTER XIII.

A LETTER FROM DONALD.

Minnie is in her little bedroom, and she is looking, with a shy surprise
mixed with just a little guilt (which is sometimes so delicious), at her
blushes in the glass. In her hand was a letter. That letter was from
Donald. It had been handed to her at the breakfast table, and she had
hastened to her room to have the luxury of secret perusal. With love
there are only two beings in the entire universe. You say love is
selfish. You are mistaken. Love loves secrecy. A blabbing tongue, the
common look of day, kills love. The monopoly that love claims is the law
of its being. If I transcribed Donald's letter you would say it was a
very commonplace production. But Minnie kissed it twice, and put it
softly in her bosom. The letter announced that he was home again, and
that he would shortly pay her a visit. It just hinted that things were
not going on well at home; but Minnie's sanguine temperament found no
sinister suggestion in the words.

The letter had made her happy. She put on her hat, and, taking the path
at the back of the house that joined that which led to the mountain, she
was soon climbing to the latter's summit.

It was a beautiful spring day. The sunlight seemed new, and young,
and very tender. The green of the trees was of that vivid hue which
expresses hope to the young, and sadness to the aged. To the former it
means a coming depth and maturity of joy; to the latter, the fresh,
eager days of the past--bright, indeed, but mournful in their brevity.