I hate crushing down meadow-grass, but I could not resist my
impulse of curiosity. I walked up to them, and just as I was going
to bend down and look at them, lo and behold, all my flowers opened
before my eyes as by a concerted signal, spread wings of the
richest blue, and fluttered away before my eyes. They were nothing
more than a company of butterflies who, tired of play, had fallen
asleep together with closed wings on the high grass-stems.
There they had sate, like folded promises, hiding their azure
sheen. Perhaps even now my hopes sit motionless and lifeless, in
russet robes. Perhaps as I draw dully near, they may spring
suddenly to life, and dance away in the sunshine, like fragments of
the crystalline sky.
July 8, 1891.
I was in town last week for a few days on some necessary business,
staying with old friends. Two or three people came in to dine one
night, and afterwards, I hardly know how, I found myself talking
with a curious openness to one of the guests, a woman whom I only
slightly knew. She is a very able and cultivated woman indeed, and
it was a surprise to her friends when she lately became a Christian
Scientist. When I have met her before, I have thought her a
curiously guarded personality, appearing to live a secret and
absorbing life of her own, impenetrable, and holding up a shield of
conventionality against the world.
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