"The old year is dying with a smile upon its face," Piers said. "It is hard to believe we are in midwinter."
"Very hard," Joyce replied; "and it is a time when, though my present is so happy and so brimful of thanksgiving, the past comes back, and will not be forgotten."
"I am glad you don"t forget the dear old days," Piers said.
"Forget! oh! no; the sadness of the past does not shadow my happy present, but it chastens it. I always think of dear father when I stand here, and poor merry, happy Bunny, swept into that surging sea."
"Yes," Piers said, sighing; "the strong are taken and the weakly ones left. Harry is, I suppose, half way round the world again in the "Persis." There is Ralph working hard and enduring a good deal at the old home, while I----"
"You are not unhappy, dear?" Joyce asked, anxiously.
"No," he said; but the "No" was not heartily said. "After all, we think too much of ourselves and all our little concerns. Why, Joyce, what are we and this earth we live in, when compared to that great universe of which these stars, as they come out one by one, seem to bring a nightly message? What are we, to think so much of ourselves? and what are life, and death, and troubles, and joys, and petty disappointments? They are nothing--lighter than dust in the balance."
"They are something to G.o.d," Joyce said, reverently. "He has told us so.
Dearest Piers, you are not losing that Faith which we used to call our staff in the dear old days."
Piers was silent for a moment.
"Joyce," he said, at last, "I like to talk to you sometimes. I sit and read in my den, and go out and in of the sitting room and see how mother is getting on, and my brain gets full of cobwebs and I am impatient, and long to spring up into a better and n.o.bler life, and yet I am tied down.
Don"t you think I did not feel my miserable weakness when I heard of Gilbert, in the thick of the rioters, saving a woman and child, and bravely doing his best in the face of the weakness and incompetence of those about him? I felt as if I would have given something to get a hard thump on my head in such a cause, the cause of humanity."
"Piers, you are dull at home, I know, but you have the delightful young doctor for a friend."
"Yes; but I can"t sham illness to get him to come; he is a long way off.
But I am doing some more diagrams for his lecture on Fungi."
"I am so glad; and Piers, when Gilbert can really afford it, we are going to have a house in the country, and call it "The Haven," and you and mother shall come and live with us, and you shall help me to teach Falcon, and we shall be so happy."
"Ah! that is looking a long way forward, Joyce. Perhaps my haven will be here, under the shadow of this old church, before then. But I feel the better already for being with you, old Joyce; you are just the same as you ever were."
The brother and sister exchanged a kiss, and then, in the silence of perfect sympathy and affection, walked back to the house.
The whole family a.s.sembled in the dining-room as the bells of the church rang out the old year. In the pause--that solemn pause before the clock strikes twelve, and the knell for the dying year is followed by a great rejoicing peal for that which is new born--Gilbert Arundel read, in slow, clear tones, that wonderful Psalm which ever seems to be so fraught with wisdom, and to express so well the yearning of the human soul for something, which as the generations roll by, and pa.s.s like a tale that is told, remains steadfast and immoveable.
Lord, _thou_ hast been our Refuge; and, notwithstanding the storms and the troubles of this short and mutable life, faithful hearts like Joyce"s can add, in trusting confidence, "and _wilt_ be to the end."
An hour later, when the last chimes had rung out from every belfry tower from far and near, and the fair young year lay calm and beautiful beneath the stars, husband and wife went together to the long, low nursery, where the three elder children lay in profound slumber. The kiss and blessing did not disturb Lettice or Lota, but the "Happy new year, darling," brought Falcon to a state of half consciousness.
"Happy new year, mother--father," he murmured, with an added word which sounded like "my trumpet."
"That beloved trumpet," said Joyce, laughing. "I let him take it out into the garden after dinner, and give one great blow; but he was so loyal, he came and hid it again, out of sight, saying, "If father heard that, it was only just _once_.""
"Dear old boy!" Gilbert said. "I shall not forget his self-denial learned from his mother."
"Nay," she said, playfully, "I do not quite wish to blow trumpets."
"Not your own, certainly," was the quiet rejoinder.
They did not forget baby Joy. Her cradle was in their own room; and Joyce called her husband to look at her, and wish her the "happy new year," as he had wished the others.
"A happy new year to my little Joy," he said.
The baby moved a little, and, throwing one fat arm behind her head, a flickering smile played over her face, a light rather than a smile, such as comes over the faces of the little ones sometimes when in sleep, their angels draw near.
It was one of those supreme moments in life, which do not find expression in many words:--
"A happy new year to you, my little Joy," Joyce repeated, and then there was silence, while--
"Two faces o"er the cradle bent, Two hands above the head were locked, These pressed each other while they rocked, Those watched a life that Love had sent.
O solemn hour!
O hidden power!"
THE END