THE HEIGHTS AND THE VALLEY.
By Zula Myer Simpson
Marguerite rose early the next morning and went for a walk in a wood near by. Down at her feet among the waving grasses blossoms peeped lovingly up at her; the stately trees, bending their branches, seemed to whisper words of welcome, while overhead the happy birds sang songs of joy; and her heart was filled with the peace which comes only to one who has chosen “the better part.” When she returned her mother was standing on the back porch watching for her. After the morning greeting, Mrs. Anderson put both hands on Marguerite’s shoulders, as she stood on the step below her, and, looking straight into her eyes, said, “Is my little girl going to be happy here now?” “Mother, I am sorry to tell you that it did seem to me for a while that I might not be, but now I know that I have chosen the true happiness, and I am happy,” was the reply in a low tone. “Yes, daughter, you have indeed found the secret of happiness; but it is hard for me to see you give up your plans. I hope they are not given up, but only put aside for a time.” “Meanwhile, you have made us very happy. Earnest called me to him a while ago, and asked with a joyous light in his eyes to say that your coming was not all a happy dream that had vanished with the light. Then he asked, ‘O, mother, has she really come to stay?’ Yet, when we received your letter he was even vehement in his remonstrances against your coming, and insisted that I must not, should not, allow it. But I told him that my daughter should do as her conscience bade her, and I knew that then her life could not be unhappy or unsuccessful.” “But your father will be in for his breakfast, and we must not stay here talking,” and passing her arm about Marguerite they went into the neat kitchen together. As Mr. Anderson came up the walk he heard a merry laugh, and the care lines relaxed into a smile as he said aloud, “Bless the child! It seems good to hear that sound again;” and all that day he went about his work with a lighter heart than he had carried for many a month. This was the new beginning of the old life. Marguerite was very busy and found no time for day dreams or vain repinings. At first she was inclined to neglect her music altogether, but her mother insisted that she should give a definite length of time to it each day, and upon this11point she was very firm. She had at once insisted that she should share her mother’s household duties, and Mrs. Anderson gradually grew to depend upon the willing hands of her daughter. She was waiting to help her father off with his coat when he came from work, and brought him his slippers afterward, laughing and talking so cheerily all the while, the care-worn expression gave place to an expression of quiet content as he settled back in his large armchair, listening and wondering if there were another girl in the whole wide world as clever as his own. When she had been asked to sing in the village choir, her first inclination had been to refuse, for she thought somewhat bitterly, “This, then, is to be the end of my musical career. I am granted the privilege of singing in the village choir.” But just then she saw her mother looking at her with a pained expression, and knew she had divined her thought, so she hastened to say pleasantly that she would help them. But the greater part of Marguerite’s time was given to Earnest, and she fairly grudged the time she must spend away from him. Soon after her return home he had begun to improve, and it was not long before he could walk out to the hammock under the trees, where Marguerite read or talked to him for hours. Later in the summer she drove Earnest’s horse, Gipsy, and took him for short drives often. All that summer he continued to improve, while his sister cared for him patiently, lovingly, believing she would nurse him back to health and strength again; and imparting to him much of her own cheerfulness. Madge spent her vacation with them, and it was a happy time for the girls, for both had keenly felt the separation. They took long drives down the shady, country lanes, wandered over the hills and through the wood in search of wild flowers or berries, and picturesque spots for Madge to sketch, and sat under the trees near the house, while Earnest lay in the hammock and listened while they read or talked. Madge enjoyed every moment of her visit, and the time passed all too quickly. She had sorely missed her friend, and hoped to prevail upon her to accompany her back to the city, now that Earnest seemed on the road to recovery. But Marguerite shook her head, and, looking toward the silent figure seated in a large chair beneath the vine-covered porch, said, while her eyes filled with tears, “My heart’s desire now is my brother’s life. That shall be my first thought, Madge.” Madge did not mention the subject again. The time which Madge spent in the quiet country home was of great benefit to her in many ways, and she returned to her work strengthened in both body and soul because of the pure, country air, and Christian companionship. On their way to the station the day of her return to the city, Marguerite stopped Gipsy at a turn in the road on a hill above the little valley, and said, “Now take a look at my valley, Madge, ’ere you go to your heights.” Madge gave a long look ere she replied softly, “Margie, I know that you have chosen wisely, but I am afraid that I could not have done it.” Then, as she saw a form going up the garden path, she added, “Perhaps I could if I had a mother like you.” Marguerite made no reply, but put her hand in her friend’s with loving sympathy as they went on their way. As the autumn days passed, Earnest grew weaker, and Marguerite’s hopes slowly died away, but she did not relax in her efforts to cheer and encourage her dear ones. It was a sad winter for her, but a joy to know she could brighten the dreary days for Earnest. He lived throughout the winter, patiently suffering, and rallied when the warm days of spring came, but Marguerite knew that the improvement was not likely to prove permanent. This summer they did not take drives together, or spend pleasant hours under the trees. Earnest could sit up but a short time each day, and later in the summer did not leave his bed, but said each day that he was “tired to-day,” but would be stronger by “to-morrow.” Marguerite’s heart was filled with anguish as she saw him grow weaker day by day, and knew that but a short time would be hers to minister to her brother’s needs. Still, when she saw him suffering so patiently, and heard him speak, as he did so often, of the wondrous glories of the New Jerusalem, and the joy that should be his to dwell with Jesus, and join with the blood-washed throng in praising His name forevermore, she could not murmur that he should soon rest from pain and sorrow. It was a dark, dreary day in November when Marguerite knew that she could do no more for her brother, but should give her care to the living ones. Then, as she looked on the calm face, she thanked God that she had found out her mistake in time to come back and cheer her brave, unselfish brother’s weary days of suffering. It was several months later, when Marguerite’s mother told her that she and father had talked the matter over, and had decided that she should return to the city and resume her studies. Marguerite listened quietly. It was not a surprise to her, she had thought this might come, and had carefully thought it over, and fully made up her mind, so she only asked, “Why, mother, don’t you want me any longer?” “Marguerite, child, don’t talk of me not wanting you! But it is not right for us to think only of our own wishes. You have been a blessing to us, dear, but you are young, and have your life before you. Nothing could make father and I more unhappy than to stand in your way. Our first wish is that you shall be happy,” said Mrs. Anderson in an eager tone. “Then do not let me hear you talk of sending me away!” Here Marguerite playfully put a hand over her mother’s mouth to prevent a reply. “Now do not say a word more. When you are tired of me, send me away, but not before.” She stooped to kiss her mother, and hurried away for a ride on Gipsy. When Mr. Anderson came to the house a little later, and his wife told him of her conversation with Marguerite, he took off his spectacles, then replaced them, and cleared his throat several times before he said, “The idea of you thinking that our girl would leave us alone!” and he found it necessary to again remove his spectacles. Before the lamp was lighted, before the bright fire, Marguerite told them the contents of the letter from Madge, which she had found awaiting her at the post-office. Madge said that her father had written to ask her to come home, saying that he did not see the use of spending more money on a useless accomplishment which could be of no practical use to any one. She had written and refused to go home, telling him she would work and starve, if need be, before she would give up her beloved art. She feared he was greatly displeased for he had not replied to her letter. Madge concluded her letter by saying, “Marguerite, it is a part of my very self. I can not give it up. I will not. I might have given it up to go to a home like yours, I do not know, but I will not give it up to go to a loveless home. “If I knew he needed me, I might go, but he gave no reason that I acknowledge as a reason. He does not really need me, and I will not go. I will succeed.” They were silent for a few moments, then Mrs. Anderson said, softly “Poor child, poor child!” and Mr. Anderson was busy for a time putting wood on the fire. At last Marguerite said, “Mother, do you think she is doing very wrong? Madge has grown to care for her art as many do for their homes and dear ones. It has occupied all of her time and thoughts, and it is not strange that she feels as she does.” “Marguerite, I do not judge her, but I am so sorry for both her and her father. I am sorry for one who has not the influence of a home, and must depend upon ambition or a profession for happiness. Poor, lonely child! I am very sorry for the father who has well nigh lost the blessing of his daughter’s love.” “It may be that he is actuated by a desire for his daughter’s presence in his home. We can not know. We go on our way so blindly, and sadly misunderstand the motives of one another’s actions.” “Perhaps Madge’s father is sad and lonely, and longs for his daughter’s love and companionship while he tries to drown the longing by gathering together gold. He may realize that he is losing his daughter’s love, and wish to prevent this by having her come home, but he has made a pitiful blunder in the way he took to bring it about.” “Try, dear, and lead her to see that her father does really need her, and that her heart should be filled with the Spirit of Him who came ‘not to be ministered unto, but to minister.’ The poorest man in our land is not in greater need of being ministered unto, as it seems to me, than Madge’s father dressed in broadcloth, and dining sumptuously every day.” “Yes, mother,” said Marguerite, “you are right. You always are. It may be that she can lead him to a happier, better life. She is a girl of strong affections, and it is pitiful that her love should be expended upon a profession.” Marguerite was silent for some time, thinking of the time when she had been so near putting her music before all else. She sympathized with Madge, and understood her better than any one else. There were times when she now felt weak, and ready to yield, if one should insist upon her continuing her musical education. Her duties were many, and she was often tired, and at times inwardly murmured against the necessary drudgery and dreary monotony of the farm life, but she did not complain, and was usually well content.