“Didn’t I?  Well, I forgot.  We couldn’t take him higher.”

“Is he so much hurt?” I asked.

“Three broken bones,” my father replied.  “It will be weeks, it may be months, before he will be well;” and he sighed hopelessly at the good deed, which, being done, pressed so heavily.  “Don’t look so sadly about it, Myrtle-Vine,” he added; “take my room, if you like.”

“That was not my thought,” I said.  “I do not mind the change of room.”

The visit to Redleaf, which I had made to dawn in my horizon, was eclipsed by three broken bones, that suddenly undermined the arch of consistency.

Soothingly came the words that were spoken unto me.  My father was all-willing to relinquish his cherished room,—­his for sixteen years, and opening into that mysterious other room,—­to give it up to me, his Myrtle-Vine; and a momentary pang that any interest in existence should be, except as circling around him, flew across the future, “the science whereof is to man but what the shadow of the wind might be,”—­and I looked up into his eyes, and, twining his long white hair around my fingers, for a moment felt that forever and forever he should be the supreme object of earthly devotion.  In my wish to evince the sentiment in action, I requested permission to assist in the care of the hospital patient.

“Oh, no, Anna! he is too wild now.  When the excitement of the fever is gone, then will be your time.”

Another of those many-toned, circling peals of laughter came from my room.  My father went in.  I went past the place that mortal eyes were not permitted to fathom, and, for the first time in my life, was curious to know its contents, and why I had never seen the interior thereof, I had grown up with the mystery, until I had accepted it, unquestioning, as a thing not for my view, and therefore out of recognition.  It was as far away from me as the open sea of the North, and might contain the mortal remains of all the navigators of Hope that ever had wandered into the sea of Time for him who so holily guarded it.

“One far-away Indian-summery day, four years agone,” “while yet the day was young,” Dr. Percival, my father, had led an azure-eyed maiden in through the mysterious entrance, and shown unto her the veiled temple, its altar and its shrine, and she had come thence with the dew of feeling in her eyes and a purple haze around her brow, which she has worn there until it has tangled its pansy-web into an abiding-place, unto such time as the light is shut out forever, or the waves from the silver sea curl their mist up thither.  I had much marvel then concerning the hidden mysteries; but Sophie so soon thereafter spake the naughty “I will,” that the silent room forgot to speak to me.  I have never heard sound thence since that morning-time.

“Why does not my father take me in?  Am I not his child, even as Sophie?”