ass,
with its deep verdure, was a wonderfully pleasant thing for the eyes
to rest upon in this waste of rock and sand. Trafford looked down at
it and at the boy sitting there,--his curly locks blown all about his
face by the warm wind,--and thought to himself, that, wherever the lad
went, brightness and pleasantness sprang up about him, even though the
soil was naught but sand and barrenness. His heart was full of
reproachful cries. "What this boy has done,--and _I_!" was a thought
continually haunting him. And he did not try to put it away; but, as
he sat there, went back over all the months of the lad's stay,
remembering what he had done to brighten the old stone house and
himself, and contrasting all the boy's actions and motives with his
own,--sparing himself not at all in the condemnation which his own
heart was ready to pronounce. "What this boy has done,--and _I_! I?
Nothing, nothing! The earth will never miss me, for I have had no part
in its life, and have cared naught for its joys or its sorrows; and
beyond--where this boy's heaven lies--there will be no place for me,
because I have not sought it, and have cared only for my own peace. So
I have no part nor place in the world or out of it." A more vivid
sense of this truth came to Trafford here, and he sighed long and
heavily, thinking of what might have been. He saw and felt what a
great matter it was to have a heart wherein God's love dwelt so
steadfastly that eye nor ear could ever be closed against the wants of
his creatures, and the work of his that lay waiting for the doing. And
it was another matter to have a heart so cold and frozen that no
warmth of his love ever thrilled it with pity or compassion,--ever
drew it with tender, gentle guidance toward himself,--ever stirred it
with longings for his love and his blessing and upholding. It was no
wonder, he thought, that for one heart the earth was joyous and
beautiful, while for the other it was but a gloomy, unhappy waste; for
over the pure, warm heart's earth God reigned, and his sunshine
lighted it, and his flowers blossomed by the wayside, and they who
lived in the land were his own, and their needs the needs of his
children. All doing was but doing for God, while in a cold, frozen
heart his work is not remembered, and the sunshine is but gloom,
because it does not come from him, and the flowers are not his, and
the poor soul mourns and sorrows, wrapped up in its own darkness and
chilliness, and fails