came upon her to lay her head upon a loyal breast and find rest from the

conflict of life, solace for her griefs, the healing of love for her

bruised heart.

With her forehead resting upon her hand, she sat thinking, thinking,

while the unheeded moments winged their flight. It was one of those

mornings in early spring when nature seems just stirring to a half

consciousness out of a long, exhausting lethargy; when the first faint

balmy airs go wandering about, whispering the secret of the coming

change; when the abused brown grass, newly relieved of snow, seems

considering whether it can be worth the trouble and worry of contriving

its green raiment again only to fight the inevitable fight with the

implacable winter and be vanquished and buried once more; when the sun

shines out and a few birds venture forth and lift up a forgotten song;

when a strange stillness and suspense pervades the waiting air. It is a

time when one's spirit is subdued and sad, one knows not why; when the

past seems a storm-swept desolation, life a vanity and a burden, and the

future but a way to death. It is a time when one is filled with vague

longings; when one dreams of flight to peaceful islands in the remote

solitudes of the sea, or folds his hands and says, What is the use of

struggling, and toiling and worrying any more? let us give it all up.

It was into such a mood as this that Laura had drifted from the musings

which the letters of her lovers had called up. Now she lifted her head

and noted with surprise how the day had wasted. She thrust the letters

aside, rose up and went and stood at the window. But she was soon

645

The Gilded Age