[Ill.u.s.tration]

There stood a tall, winged man. His s.h.a.ggy hair was heavy and black, his face was gaunt and wild. He was sweeping the harp-strings with long, bony fingers. Strange and uncouth and terrible as he looked, there was such strength about the great figure, such power in the face, that the Princess, though terror-stricken, was drawn towards him. And when he saw her leaning from her cas.e.m.e.nt, so gentle an expression crossed his worn visage, that her fear of him departed instantly, and she said:--

"I know thee, great master. Thou art the Wind, and thou hast met my Love. Ah, in mercy take me to him!"

"Wilt thou not be afraid to entrust thyself to my arms?" he whispered.

"Good sir, carry me all over the earth, through frozen worlds of endless ice, so thou layest me at my lord's feet at last, and I shall not know a moment's fear. I love him!" she said simply.

The Wind clasped her in his arms and flew away, lulling her to sleep as he went.

When the Princess awoke she was standing in a gloomy cavern. The walls were of black onyx. A stream of crystal water ran gurgling at her feet.

When her eyes became more accustomed to the haze and dimness of the place, she saw a sight which made her wish to shriek aloud; but her voice seemed to have gone, and she stood powerless and terror-stricken.

As she gazed a light seemed to break upon her mind.

Fate, robed in lowering mists, sat gazing into a divining gla.s.s, with keen, prophetic eyes; with her right hand she held Love in strong and terrible grasp. In the crouching, penitent figure, Myra recognised, with bursting heart, that her Prince and Love were one. Then she became conscious of the deep voice of Fate ringing through the gloom in threatening tones.

"Thou didst think thou couldst play with her affections as thou dost with those of a mortal maid, couldst win her love and break her heart by thy desertion! But, trickster as thou art, in thine own net art thou caught. See, where each tear she lets fall, a lily springs."

Myra's eyes followed Fate's pointing finger. Love looked up and saw the Princess standing in a cl.u.s.ter of white lilies.

"Know that she is a spirit, immortal as thyself; a child of the Winds, nursed on the salt Sea's breast. Therefore, as thou only canst feel punishment in her agony, she shall be called Grief. Henceforth, in all Love there shall be much of bitterness. Parting from the thing loved shall be the keenest pang of human pain. She shall visit her foster-parents but once again, and mingle her sobs with theirs. She shall pursue thee through the ages, and fear of her coming shall lessen thy rapture. Disappointment, despair, and misery, shall walk in her train. Man shall weep tears of blood in that thou hast created Grief!"

Love shrieked aloud in pain, and flinging aside the cruel hand of Fate, threw his arms about the shrinking girl. They stood in the misty gloom together, his brilliant form regained its strength. Grief lifted her br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes to his and caught their power.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

A great wave of tenderness broke over the mournful face of Fate; her calm glance rested prophetically on the two figures as she addressed them for the last time.

"But her love of thee shall endure until the Lilies of Grief are lost in the Roses of Love; for Love shall be king of Grief, and of Time, and of Eternity."

[Ill.u.s.tration: UNTIL THE LILIES OF GRIEF ARE LOST IN THE ROSES OF LOVE]

The Flower that reached the Sun-lands

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Flower that reached the Sun-lands]

"No star is ever lost we once have seen We always may be what we might have been"

Adelaide Procter

I.

Though only a miserable little waif, born in sorrow and nurtured in poverty, George Ermen had resolved to be a great man.

He earned six shillings a week at sorting rags and paper, adding frequently to this a smaller sum gained by cleaning pots at a public-house. It was a miserable pittance. He and his mother could hardly be said to live upon it, they only existed; and they found this still more difficult when George's father, a lazy, ne'er-do-well, came to visit them.

The boy and his mother dwelt in a garret in Paradise Court. It was a bare, miserable room, its only furniture an old iron bedstead, a rickety table, and two chairs. Opening out of the attic was a tiny chamber with a mattress in one corner, on which George slept. He had no bed-clothes, and was in the habit of covering himself with papers during the chill winter nights.

On the wall hung a small plaster crucifix. A sprig of box was thrust through the ring by which the cross was suspended. The window looked out upon a wilderness of chimneys and grimy tenement houses.

It seemed to George that G.o.d had been very good to him, although he was poor and ragged and half starved, for besides his old mother, whom he loved above everything, he had three good friends--Father Francis, the Roman Catholic priest; Miss Brand, who was devoting both time and money to the suffering poor in the district; and Maggie Reed, his little sweetheart, who was as poverty-stricken and as tattered as himself.

George sang in the choir at the church. He possessed a beautiful voice, and the priest felt sure that were it possible to procure him an efficient musical training he would have a future. But it seemed rash to even hope for a chance for the boy among the squalor and misery and sin which surrounded the poor. Father Francis, however, did not lose heart, because he was a good man, believing in G.o.d, and feeling convinced that He would stretch forth His hand to the waif and help him in His own good time. The lad himself was even more hopeful than the priest, because he was young, and had resolved that death alone should prevent the fulfilment of his vow.

Not that poor George Ermen had much idea of what the term "a great man"

meant, excepting that they usually dressed in frock coats, wore gaiters over their boots, and drove about in a carriage, all of which seemed very pleasant and most desirable to the bare-footed waif.

Strangely enough, he was frequently pondering over very material things when he sang his best and when his eyes seemed most dreamy.

"What were you a-thinking of this mornin' in church when you was singin'

the _Ave Maria_?" his mother had once inquired.

"Why, didn't I sing it well?" he asked anxiously.

"Yaas, better than ever before, and yer faice looked loike an angel's."

"Well, I was promisin' G.o.d that if ever I got rich enough to ride about in a carriage like the lords do that come and lay foundation stones and opens schools and things, I'd invite all the little children what's so miserable to tea and m.u.f.fins."

Mrs. Ermen smiled sadly. She had no belief in her son ever rising to be anything better than a wretched waif, fated to live and die in Paradise Court. But as long as he was honest, and brave, and true to his friends, she must not complain. She was content, almost happy indeed, when she looked around her and saw boys of George's age swearing and fighting and drinking, while George was sober, well behaved, and industrious.

Maggie Reed knew in her young soul that George would surely live to be a great man, and often when they roamed about the weary streets together, she would cheer him with her childish confidence.

"We'll live on 'Ampstead 'Eath, George, when you're rich and we're married, at one of them big 'ouses by the pond, and we'll 'ave donkey rides and bicycles and things."

"Yes, darling," George would answer.

By the advice of Father Francis they often spent hours in the parks and squares, where the air was sweeter than that of Paradise Court; but frequently George's little sweetheart grew so tired that he had to carry her on his back most of the way home again.

It was a cold day in early spring. Mrs. Ermen sat shivering in a corner of their garret, when her boy bounded into the room carrying a geranium in a pot.

"Mother, mother," he cried in wild excitement, "Miss Brand is gettin' up a geranium show! It's ter come off in July. Four hundred plants have been given out to the children this morning. They are to keep them, water them, attend to them, make them grow and flower, and when the day comes round for the show the plants must be taken to the schoolroom, and the best will get a prize."

"Who is ter judge?" asked Mrs. Ermen, catching George's excitement.

"A lord!"

"A lord?"

"Yes, one of them that wears gaiters over their boots. And I am going to win the first prize!" he added firmly, his sharp face wearing an expression of happy antic.i.p.ation.

"I 'ope you will, my dear," she answered, kissing him, and breathing a prayer from her poor ignorant soul for the good woman whose unselfish devotion had brought that look into her boy's face.

Time pa.s.sed, and the bitter, easterly winds proved to be more than Mrs.

Ermen could bear. She became too weak to rise, and when George grew alarmed she tried to comfort him by saying that she felt warmer in bed; and when June came she should be about again, and he must not distress himself for her sake.