it must needs stand by virtue of its use and its quality.  Every thing had a certain sort of dramatic fitness, without in the least trenching on the theatrical.  Her effects were always produced with simple things, in simple ways; but they resulted in an impression of abundance and luxury.  As Parson Dorrance glanced around at all the wild-wood beauty, and the wild-wood fragrance stole upon his senses, a great mastering wave of love for the woman whose hand had planned it all swept over him.  He recalled Mercy’s face the day before, when she had said,—­

“You are the youngest person I know;” and, as she crossed the threshold of the door at that instant, he went swiftly towards her with outstretched hands, and a look on his face which, if she had seen, she could not have failed to interpret aright.

But she was used to the outstretched hands; she always put both her own in them, as simply as a child; and she was bringing to her teacher now a little poem, of which her thoughts were full.  She did not look fully in his face, therefore; for it was still a hard thing for her to show him her verses.

Holding out the paper, she said shyly,—­

“It had to get itself said or sung, you know,—­that thought that haunted me so yesterday at ‘The Cedars.’  I daresay it is very bad poetry, though.”

Parson Dorrance unfolded the paper, and read the following poem:—­

  Where?

  My snowy eupatorium has dropped
  Its silver threads of petals in the night;
  No sound told me its blossoming had stopped;
  Its seed-films flutter, silent, ghostly white: 
    No answer stirs the shining air,
      As I ask, “Where?”

  Beneath the glossy leaves of wintergreen
  Dead lily-bells lie low, and in their place
  A rounded disk of pearly pink is seen,
  Which tells not of the lily’s fragrant grace: 
    No answer stirs the shining air,
      As I ask “Where?”

  This morning’s sunrise does not show to me
  Seed-film or fruit of my sweet yesterday;
  Like falling flowers, to realms I cannot see
  Its moments floated silently away: 
    No answer stirs the shining air,
      As I ask, “Where?”

As he read the last verse, his face altered.  Mercy was watching him.

“I thought you wouldn’t like the last verse,” she said eagerly.  “But, indeed, it doesn’t mean doubt.  I know very well no day dies; but we can’t see the especial good of each single day by itself.  That is all I meant.”

Parson Dorrance came closer to Mercy:  they were both standing.  He laid one hand on her’ head, and said,—­

“Child, it was a ‘sweet yesterday’ wasn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mercy, still absorbed in the thought of the poem.  “The day was as sweet as the flowers.  But all days are heavenly sweet out of doors with you and Lizzy,” she continued, lifting one hand, and laying it caressingly on the hand which was stroking her hair.