her, which was one of her chief characteristics, hastily looked up and meeting his eye fixed on her with that foreboding glance, softly arose and came and sat down by his side. “You look tired,” murmured she; “the long ride after a day of business care has been too much for you.”
It was the first word of sympathy with his often over-wearied mind and body, that had greeted his ears for years. It made his eyes moisten.
“I have been a little overworked,” said he, “for the last two months, but I shall soon be myself again. What were you thinking of, Paula?”
“What was I thinking of?” repeated she, drawing her chair nearer to his in her loving confidence. “I was thinking what wonders of beauty and art lay in that great kernel which you call the city. I shall see lovely faces and noble forms. I shall wander through halls of music, the echo of whose songs may have come to me in the sob of the river or the sigh of the pines, but whose notes in all their beauty and power have never been heard by me even in my dreams. I shall look on great men and touch the garments of thoughtful women. I shall see life in its fullness as I have felt nature in its mightiness, and my heart will be satisfied at last.”
Mr. Sylvester drew a deep breath and his eyes burned strangely in the glow of the firelight. “You expect high things,” said he; “did you ever consider that the life in a great city, with its ceaseless rush and constant rivalries, must be often strangely petty in despite of its artistic and social advantages?”
“All life has its petty side,” said she, with a sweet arch look. “The eagle that cleaves the thundercloud, must sometimes stop to plume its wings. I should be sorry to lose the small things out of existence. Even we in the face of that great sunset appealing to us from the west, have to pile up the firewood on the hearth and set the table for supper.”